


To Let Go

by anomalously



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: -freeform?, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sexual Content, Werewolf Transformation (Graphic-ish?), some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Being Rabid meant you were weak. It got you caught, got you killed because you couldn't control yourself. You had to surrender to gain control, part of the give and take nature of the beast. For Mickey, it was one serious bitch to try to conquer… his body just wouldn't give in.</i>
</p><p>[werewolf!Mickey/Milkoviches; witch!Ian/Gallaghers]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey’s siblings did as they were told, leaving him alone, in pain, with his father. Terry Milkovich wasn’t an understanding man. He wasn’t compassionate or kind. Mickey wondered if he ever was, or if he just came out of the fucking womb like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian is like 18 in this; Mickey is like 19/20, however old that boy is idek. 
> 
> **Some quick background, to just be aware of:** Given the storyline I’ve decided on, the situation with Mickey and Terry is really complicated, in terms of Mickey’s sexuality. Terry is aware and is not okay with it —Mickey is not “out” though. It’s just something that the family knows about. Make sense?  
>  So… that being said, Mickey is somewhat still of a huge closet-case (in more ways than one, you’ll see what I’m talking about), and still trying to cover up the fact that he is gay —for his father’s sake. I’m hoping this makes sense. TL;DR: are worse things than being gay, with this Terry, in this story.
> 
>  **ALSO**... this is not beta'd, like all of my other stuff. I really tried to edit as well as I could, but any mistakes or weird spelling/wrong word things are mine alone. So...

It started with a headache. It always started with a headache. Then itching all over. And then came the sweating and the shakes; the itching got worse until he scratched himself raw. After that, came the hit. Like a semi-truck to the chest, it hit fast and hard and sudden.

Mickey held onto the metal bars with a crushing grip, his back heaving in a painful arch, feeling his spine slip apart and rearrange, the pain crackling out like spidery lightning bolts over his nerves. 

He clenched his jaw and yelled through his teeth, watching his brothers and sister and father watch him, wishing they would go the fuck away, they were doing the exact _opposite_ of helping the situation. Fuckers had control over themselves while he was banished to the fucking cage until he could be a good boy.

“ _Relax_ ,” his father barked, a sneer on his face. “Ain’t gonna get outta the cage until you can fucking handle yourself.”

How the _fuck_ was he supposed to relax? Mickey fell to his knees, feeling unbearable pressure in his legs, while something bubbled up in his stomach; he was gonna puke, he could feel it. Too much stomach acid and pain and stress.

The first time Mickey went through it, he thought he was dying. He thought he was going to be ripped apart from the inside, out —be nothing left but bits of bone and blood.

Every bone, every tendon, every muscle and fiber of what made his body broke. It happened fast, but not fast enough to power through and get it over with. Not fast enough to put on a brave face and deal with the pain. 

Mandy kneeled in front of the cage, keeping her voice low, “If you don’t get ahold of yourself, you’re gonna end up fucking Rabid, Mick.”

“Fuck you, I ain’t Rabid,” Mickey spat through another wave of pain. 

Being Rabid meant you were weak. It got you caught, got you killed because you couldn't control yourself. You had to surrender to gain control, part of the give and take nature of the beast. For Mickey, it was one serious bitch to try to conquer… his body just wouldn't give in.

“Just lay down and ride it out,” Iggy said. “The fuck is the problem?”

“Get the fuck out, Iggy!” Mickey growled, his ribs starting to expand until they popped with a sick snap, one by one. Mickey, silenced by the unbearable pain, couldn't hold it in anymore and he heaved, blood and bile splattering on the floor.

Mandy stood up and backed away from the cage, “Gross.”

“Everybody out,” Mickey’s father said, his voice low and dangerous.

Mickey’s siblings did as they were told, leaving him alone, in pain, with his father. Terry Milkovich wasn’t an understanding man. He wasn’t compassionate or kind. Mickey wondered if he ever was, or if he just came out of the fucking womb like that.

Terry lit up a cigarette. Mickey’s spine felt like it was on fire; his body shook and jerked from being emptied, his vision doubling as he tried to focus. It felt like his head about about to crack down the center; the sour taste of bile in his mouth made him wince.

“Took me five turns before I let go,” Terry said. “How long does it take to go Rabid?”

Mickey spit out the taste of vomit and blood in his mouth, rubbing at his lips with throbbing, broken hands. “About three years.”

Terry nodded, pacing in front of the cage. “How long you been stuck in there every month like a damn _dog_?”

“Two years,” Mickey ground out, his skin buzzing and pulsing, feeling his muscle shift and tear. He clenched his eyes and swallowed the yell that threatened to surface.

Terry knelt down in front of the cage, where Mandy was moments before. His eyes flashed amber in warning, “No son of mine will turn Rabid, you hear me? You will _not_ put that on our family. Ain’t a Milkovich alive that’s Rabid. You ain’t fucking special, you go Rabid—”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Mickey gasped, gripping the bars until the pain shot up his arms. The pain beat through his system like a drum, heavy and pulsing.

“You ain’t trying shit,” Terry snarled. “Bad enough I gotta deal with you thinking you’re some kind of fucking faggot, now you gotta make us all look weak. You’re fucking soft.”

“I’m not soft!” Mickey yelled through a wave of radiating pain. His body tensed, unable to relax, unable to do anything but fight against it’s nature.

“You got until the next turn,” Terry blew a plume of smoke into Mickey’s face. “You don’t let go by next turn, one of us is putting a bullet in your head, you understand me? You will let go. Or you’ll be in the ground. That’s a fucking promise.”

Then Terry left the basement, leaving a thin trail of smoke in his wake. He slammed the door on his way out, the sound booming through the space under the house, piercing into Mickey’s ears.

“Fuck!” Mickey yelled, falling onto his back, feeling hard concrete slam into him, shifting his bones and muscle. He arched painfully off of the floor, swearing he was on fire, swearing violent claws were tearing him apart. 

His yells grew more savage, the pain radiated, pulsed, burned up and down his body. His line of sight shifting. Pressure in his face, mouth full of blood. Screams turned into howls, turned into nothing.

One last shudder of pain. One last wave and Mickey was left panting on the floor of the cage, laying on his side, his body heaving with every breath. After a moment, the pain faded away, into the background. 

He didn’t like the “W” word. Sounded so fucking stupid to him, like someone was trying to put him in the middle of a horror movie. _Werewolf_. Saying it out loud made his eyes roll. _I’m a Werewolf_. Yeah, okay buddy, you have fun with that.

Mickey’s wolf was black and gray, like the rest of his family. Gray and large with monstrous teeth and amber eyes. There was something not right about Werewolves compared to regular wolves. Something about the gait, the shape of the head, the curve of the spine. Subtle differences that made them look _wrong_. That's what they were called sometimes, wrong wolves.

He paced the cage, rubbing his side against the bars, feeling the _bump-bump-bump_ and the concrete under the pads of his feet. He shook out his body a couple times, trying to calm down, trying to relax. It was hard to relax, nearly impossible for him.

He wanted out. He wanted to _run_. Being locked up once a month for two years was unnatural. He was built to run and hunt. The craving, the urge, was like this pressure in his belly. It made his skin crawl and his muscles tense. He _needed_ to run. 

Mickey exhaled roughly, shaking out his body again, involuntary growls bubbling up from his belly, turning into more vicious, angry huffs and grunts. His mouth watered, so he snapped his jaws open and shut, feeling ropes of saliva drip from his mouth. He ached with hunger and needing to run, ached to get out of the fucking cage. It wasn’t right, being locked up like this.

Then the hunger came, like it always did. It was more than hunger for food. It was a fucked up and dark craving that he needed to ease. He craved the chase, that first bite into flesh. That first scream —the fight, the life fading away, the pulse. Thinking about it made him shiver. Being what he was, particularly during a full moon, came with a violent need for violence. A violent need to destroy. Nature of the untamed beast, and all that.

He’d tasted blood before, his first two turns had turned into bloodbaths —they had been fucking _glorious_ … if you didn’t think about it afterwards. If you didn't think about the fact that you tore someone to pieces, that you took a life. Ever since then, he’d been locked up —when you killed, you had to do it _smart_ , and bloodbaths weren’t smart, they were a part of reckless, Rabid behavior.

Surrendering to the wolf gives you the control you need to _not_ do shit like that. And until then, you risked exposure; until then, you were no better than some fucked up out-of-control Werewolf movie monster. Because once you’ve tasted blood, once you’ve killed the way Mickey did —while out of control— it’s impossible to forget. 

Soon, the craving would be too strong. Soon, he’d go Rabid for it. Frothing at the mouth, wild-eyed, massacre-style, nearly killing himself to break out of the cage. Rabid.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, the day after a full moon is spent mostly in bed. Mickey’s body is worn the fuck out, shaky and aching from his insides being ripped apart and put back together. He sleeps like a corpse, unmoving and quiet as the grave. It’s not until late in the day does he have the strength and motivation to get out of bed. And by that time, he’s starving —it’d be easier if his hunger could be sated with something as simple as food.

They don’t have any hot water at the moment, so when Mickey showers it’s too quick to do anything other than to barely soap up and rinse off the layer of dried sweat covering his skin. Iggy and Colin are still passed out. Who the fucks know’s what Mandy is up to in her room, and his father isn’t even in the house, which is good because Mickey doesn't want to see that motherfucker.

He leaves, letting his feet carry him where they want to go. He knows where they want to go, knows he shouldn't follow them, but he does anyway because he makes bad fucking decisions. Stupid fucking decisions —ones that could get him killed.

Mickey thinks that the buildings might have been apartments once. Maybe offices —there’s about a dozen empty buildings set up almost like a maze. They’re vine-covered, abandoned, completely worn down; graffiti and litter strewn everywhere. His stomach tightens up as he walks through the overgrown grass, over broken glass and rocks, keeping his ears alert and focused on his surroundings.

It’s dark (as dark as Chicago can actually get with all the city and street lights), but Mickey sees a glowing red light up in the third story of one of the buildings near the back of the complex. It’s just a little dot of light that gets a little brighter for a moment before dimming again. He shakes his head, stops walking, stops his feet from carrying him up those stairs that lead to the light, that lead to the thing that will get him killed.

His hands are shaking like an alcoholic standing outside of a liquor store. The light glows bright again before fading back down. He should turn around and go back home. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't _want_ to be here. It’s wrong.

Mickey sighs, long and broken, and treads up the stairs, smelling cigarette smoke and soap and flesh long before he reaches the third floor. The combination of those smells, those particular smells, that particular scent of flesh, is intoxicating. He forgets about how bad of an idea this is, forgets that it could get him killed. His mouth waters, shoulders tighten in anticipation. He’s been waiting for this since before he turned last night.

“You’re late.”

“Rough night last night,” Mickey says, his voice low.

“I bet. You let go yet?”

Mickey feels sick. He glares at the redhead. 

Tall and pale with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Ian Gallagher, the one kind of person he needed to stay away from, but couldn’t. There’s another “W” word that makes Mickey roll his eyes, and it applies to Ian. Witches and Werewolves with their volatile past — _this_ was forbidden. It was _wrong_. Maybe it was Mickey craved it so much. He was self-destructive like that.

“Didn’t come here for chit-chat, Gallagher,” Mickey says, shrugging his jacket off.

Ian gives him a flat look. He’s probably the only one, outside of the Milkovich’s, that can get away with that shit. “Starting to think you only like me for my body.”

“You’re starting to catch on then,” Mickey huffs a laugh.

He watches Ian shrug out of his jacket. The guy is fucking beautiful and Mickey hates him for it, hates that out of everyone in the fucking world, it had to be a damn _Witch_.Mickey doesn't _think_ he loves Ian. He likes him well enough… he’s okay —for a Witch. Ian doesn't look at Mickey like he’s some kind of fucked up Rabid. So that’s kind of cool.

Mickey moves quickly as he pushes Ian against hard the wall, making the redhead grunt from the sudden accost. Ian is a bit taller than him, looking down at him with heat behind his eyes. Ian might be taller, but Mickey is stronger —despite the fact that Ian could throw him to the other end of the building without lifting a finger (Mickey didn’t count that though, it was cheating, as far as he was concerned). Ian’s powerful in his own right. Mickey knows this —he’s been on the wrong end of that power before.

Ian’s body is hard but giving against Mickey. Mickey tilts his head up and Ian meets him halfway, their lips pressing together. It starts off a little soft, but hunger settles in, and soft hardens up, along with the rest of Mickey’s body. They work their lips and tongue in ways that make each other tremble and moan.

Kissing is intimate and dangerous, but Mickey likes the way it makes his stomach tense up and his breath ragged. The Witch has soft lips and the inside of his mouth tastes good; Mickey can hear Ian’s heart beat a little faster when they kiss, he can tell that Ian likes it too. So that makes it even hotter, knowing that whatever Mickey does with his lips and tongue, it’s good for Ian. As much as he likes Ian making him feel good, he _surprisingly_ likes making Ian feel good as well.

Mickey also likes when Ian kisses him after going down on him. There’s this dark, primal part of him that tastes himself of the redhead’s tongue and thinks _mine_. Ian isn't his though, he can’t be. But for a moment, it’s a kind of nice and dirty feeling to bask in.

Mickey pins Ian against the wall, hands reaching between them to work Ian’s belt as Ian does the same to him. His hands aren’t necessarily _trembling_ , but he’s so keyed up that it takes him a couple tries to get a good grip on the leather strap. 

He needs this. He needs it so bad that his bones ache for it. They work silently, breathing hard against each others mouths, reaching into each others boxers to stroke until Ian flips them around, pressing Mickey against the wall face-first.

This is the other thing that could get Mickey killed. Not only was he fucking around with a Witch, but he was _getting fucked_ by a Witch. He took it —and holy shit did he love taking it, loved feeling impossibly full, stretched, fucking held down, he loved all that shit. He even pressed his cheek against dirty walls and whined like a little bitch when he got fucked. And if Ian worked him good enough, he could come untouched. That's how much Mickey loved taking it. 

Gay, getting fucked by a Witch, and on the verge of becoming Rabid. Mickey was practically _begging_ for his father to put a bullet between his eyes.

Ian shoved Mickey’s jeans halfway down his thighs, pressing his mouth against his ear and breathing hotly, “You’re shaking for it.”

He was. But he was always shaky and keyed up after a full moon, “Then fucking do something about it.”

Ian had this dark breathy laugh he let out against the back of his neck that sent a shiver down Mickey’s spine. Ian’s hands, with his long fingers, curled around his hips as he pressed tightly against Mickey’s ass, the material of his jeans rubbing against his bare skin. Mickey clenched his eyes shut tight. He hated when Ian did this shit, drew it out, teased him like they had time. 

Then Ian reached around and took Mickey in his hand, wrapping those long fingers around him, stroking him again, and Mickey felt it everywhere. Mickey panted roughly when Ian mouthed and bit at his neck from behind, while he rocked his hips against him, pressing his covered erection up against his ass, stroking him until he let out a broken groan. 

Mickey knew he shouldn't like that as much as he did, he’d be called a bitch —he _wasn’t_ a bitch, he wasn’t fucking soft. It’s just what he liked and Ian knew _exactly_ what Mickey liked. They fit together like that. They worked. It made Mickey so fucking mad and so fucking hot at the same time. So he just gave in. He let go for the Witch.

Ian’s hand slips away from him. Mickey’s breathing hard, aching, listening to the _snick_ of the tube that Ian carries with him to their meeting spot. Mickey closes his eyes, listening to the sounds around them, listening for anyone who shouldn't be there. There’s no one.

The redhead has skilled fingers that open Mickey up quickly and carefully. Ian’s rough, but not reckless, touching places inside of Mickey that make his eyes roll back while he claws at the wall he’s pressed against. His breath comes out harsh, comes out sounding as if he’s in pain, though it’s anything but painful. Ian bites at his neck again, drags his tongue across his skin. 

“Fuck,” Mickey pants. He presses his forehead against the wall and pushes back against Ian’s hand, fucking himself on Ian’s fingers. A low rolling growl bubbles from the pit of his belly.

“Love when you do that,” Ian says. Mickey can hear his grin. He kind of gets off on Ian liking that sound —it’s dark and eerie and could come off as scary, but Ian isn’t scared of Mickey, Ian likes Mickey’s dark and eerie… and Mickey kind of likes that.

He listens to the sound of Ian pushing his jeans down with one hand, feeling Ian’s fingers gently slip from inside of him. He makes another one of those belly-growls from the loss, until hears Ian rip open a condom packet and listens to the rustle of movement and feels Ian start to press inside of him.

“You good?” Ian asks, his voice straining for control.

“I’m good,” Mickey grunts, bracing his forearms against the wall, pushing his ass back as Ian grips his hips with a bruising force. Mickey wishes he bruised in these moments. He wants Ian’s marks all over him, like a secret map of where the Witch’s hands have been, so he can follow the bruises and remember.

Ian bottoms out but takes his time doing so, makes Mickey feel fuller than anyone else he’s ever been with. Then the redhead reaches around again to grip Mickey’s cock, pushing him flush against the wall, trapping him there. Instinct _should_ tell Mickey to fight to get out of the trapped position, but it doesn’t. 

The Witch moves slow at first, allowing Mickey to adjust to him. He feels so fucking good and Mickey presses the side of his face against the wall; he snarls a grin, his body humming and electric.

“So fucking tight,” Ian pants, rocking his hips just barely. He breathes on the exposed side of Mickey’s face, leaning forward to nip and lick at the corner of his mouth until Mickey turns his head just enough so they can briefly and sloppily kiss.

“Come on,” Mickey grunts.

Ian braces his free arm on the wall, grabbing a fistful of Mickey’s hair, pinning him as he starts giving Mickey exactly what he wants. Mickey’s legs shake as Ian fucks him. He fucks him hard and fast and so fucking _good_ , hitting his prostate every other thrust, his hand curled around his cock not moving. Mickey’s skin breaks out in goosebumps and he growls; they’re involuntary, the growls. But they get Ian going and make him fuck Mickey harder.

“Hate going a week without this, can’t do that again,” Ian breathes.

Mickey shivers, because Ian’s so fucking right, a week is too long. Jerking off and fucking himself with his own fingers only did so much. This right here, _this_ was what he needed.

Ian slows down, his thrusts long and deep. Mickey gnaws at his bottom lip, tries to hold in the shudder and whine. He doesn't succeed, he whines like a little bitch. His whine makes Ian moan, makes him attach his lips to the back of his neck and whisper these truly awful things about how good Mickey takes it, how good he feels tight around Ian’s cock like that. 

Mickey likes that shit, likes what Ian says. Hates that he likes it, because it’s dangerous. He shouldn't like this, shouldn't like what the Witch does to his body. But he does, so _so_ much. 

Because in those moments, even though it’s just fucking, nothing else fucking matters. The fact that he’s fucking up so bad and can’t let go during a turn, the fact that it makes him sick to his stomach to play pretend with girls for his dad’s sake, the fact that his dad was _absolutely_ going to kill him next month after his turn, or make him kill himself… it doesn't fucking matter. 

The only thing that matters is what Ian says and what Ian does and how Ian feels. It’s all Ian. There’s where everything gets fucked up. There’s where Mickey doesn't _think_ he loves Ian. But he gives a shit about him. He _cares_ about him, a lot. Probably kill for him. And it’s not okay.

“You like that, Mick?” Ian snaps his hips, pushing into him deep, brushing against his prostate as he moves; his hand tightens in Mickey’s hair. “You like this?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey ground out. Of course he fucking likes this. Of course it’s all he can fucking think about, the only thing he’s ever looked forward to. Ian fucking _knows_ that.

Mickey splits his focus between getting fucked and listening to what’s around them. He cant afford to put all his focus on this moment, even though he wants to. He wonders what that’s like, what it’s like to get fucked proper.

“Wanna fuck you on a bed,” Ian groans out, brushing his lips against the back of Mickey’s neck. “Look — _s-shit_ — look you in the eyes when you come. You want that? I can — _fuck_ — make it so good for you. _Jesus_ , Mick.” 

Mickey punches out a moan, reaching back to fist his hand into Ian’s hair and pull hard, “Get out of my… get out of my fucking head, Gallagher — _shit_ , right there.”

The urgency of needing to come crashes onto Mickey like a tidal wave. Ian strokes at his leaking cock, pressing his mouth against Mickey’s ear as he fucks him deep.

“You feel so good, Mick,” Ian rasps. “You want it?”

Mickey can smell Ian’s desperation to come, it hangs there in the air around them; knowing that he does that to the redhead hits Mickey in the chest.

He nods, almost violently, his fist falling from Ian’s hair and slamming into the wall, completely fucking frustrated with himself as he grunts through his teeth, “Yes. _Fuck_ … yes, do it. Please.”

What Ian whispers in Mickey’s ear, he doesn't understand. Ian puts his free hand on the front of Mickey’s chest. He goes all warm. Ian says whatever he does over and over again. This is _wrong_ on so many levels, _letting_ a Witch manipulate his body like this. _Allowing_ this shit to happen. Ian keeps stroking him and whispering in his ear.

The warmth vibrates and pulses; Mickey feels it right at the base of his cock, feels it spreading over him like warm water, amplifying how good Ian feels inside of him. Mickey balls his fists up tight, his body shaking and burning up, holding his breath to keep from yelling.

Ian presses harder on his chest, whispering, “Now let go. Let go for me.”

So he does, breaking apart at the edges, clawing into the wall. He comes hard into Ian’s hand with a vicious, low growl. Mickey sags against the wall as the Witch thrusts into him half a dozen more times before coming with a guttural moan, scraping his teeth on the back of his neck. 

Mickey can barely catch his breath, can barely keep himself standing. Ian slips from his body, slow and careful, tugging his pants up for him, _because he’s obnoxiously helpful like that sometimes_. Blindly, Mickey sorts himself out and turns to face Ian, sinking back against the wall.

Despite shaking and feeling all buzzy and floaty, Mickey feels his muscles relax, feels himself able to breathe again —able to breathe _better_ , able to focus more clearly. 

Ian gives him something he needs. He wishes he didn't need it, didn't need Ian. But he does. Mickey’d only been with a handful of guys, but Ian was the only one who did it right. The only one who fucking got it. It was a goddamn problem.

Ian lights up a cigarette and passes it to Mickey once he’s taken a couple drags from it. Mickey pulls hard on the cigarette and watches the cloud of smoke drift between them. They don’t say anything for a while, just pass the cigarette back and forth.

The redhead speaks first. He always does, “So, I take it you haven’t let go yet.”

Mickey shrugs, passing the cigarette back.

“What’re you gonna do if you can’t?”

Mickey sighs, “Don’t have a choice. My dad’s gonna put a fucking bullet in my head if I don’t, next turn. Or make me do it, myself.”

Ian got real quiet for a minute while he leaned against the wall next to Mickey, just looking at him. Mickey could hear his heartbeat —the little jump. “He wouldn't really do that, would he?”

Mickey snorts an ugly, humorless laugh, “You don’t know shit about my dad. He ain’t gonna let me go Rabid and shame the family name, or some shit.” (Because Milkovich held _such_ fucking respect, right? Fucking joke.)

“Then how’re you gonna—”

“I got it under control,” Mickey cut him off, not wanting to talk about this shit anymore.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“Didn’t fucking ask you for your opinion, did I Witch?”

Ian rolls his eyes, head shaking, “Whatever.”

Mickey doesn't know when it started, or how it started, this whole Witches and Werewolves hating each other thing. Werewolves, _the mistake_ —created by a fucked up little shit of a Witch who had no idea what they were doing. But a Werewolf was the result, spreading like some kind of fucked up disease (genetically and… virally? Whatever transferring a curse through a bite on the full moon meant, Mickey didn't know, didn’t give a shit) with _no_ fucking cure. 

Absolute _brilliance_ , really.

So the best way to rid of the disease was to extinguish the hosts right? Probably would have been easier if the original dumbass that created Werewolves hadn't given them a healthy dose of strengths. Yeah, Witches had their little spells and powers, but Werewolves could tear them apart with their bare hands. There was something to be said about that. So out of all that bloodshed, came the enemy-number-one status.

Whatever. Mickey doesn't care too much about any of that shit. It’s a bunch of antiquated views that are a major cock-block as far as he’s concerned. 

“How’s Mandy?”

“Why?” Mickey peers over at Ian.

Ian shrugs, “Just wondering.”

Mickey exhales another cloud of smoke, “She’s fine.”

“Kinda miss hanging out with her,” Ian says.

Before Mandy first turned, before Ian got his little magical powers, before the terms Werewolf and Witch had meaning behind them, Ian and Mandy were close —like best-friend kind of close. When you’re young, depending on your family, you can associate with whoever you want. 

As soon as you turn for the first time… that shit is over. It’s official, because _you_ became official. Such a fucking dumb rule. One day you were technically “allowed” to be someone’s friend, the next day you weren’t. Again… antiquated bullshit.

“Is she—”

“You good to go for round two, or do you wanna stand around and talk about my sister all night?” Mickey cut him off.

Ian smirked, cocking his head to the side. Mickey felt his body still before he flew back against the wall, lifting off the ground until he was eye level with Ian, his feet dangling above the floor. He panted, unable to move, his body instantly reacting to his predicament, somewhere between annoyance and being so fucking turned on, he couldn't stand it.

“You’re such a dick,” Ian grinned, standing in front of Mickey.

It was like he was fucking paralyzed. Unable to move his arms or legs. Mickey took deep, steady breaths, surrendering himself over to Ian’s hold, watching the Witch as he trailed a hand down his chest. The touch sent spidery little currents of popping electricity through his body, vibrating warmth. He slipped his hand up under Mickey’s shirt, sliding it up to Mickey’s sternum, scratching lightly as he did.

Mickey moaned, wetting his lips, that primal side bustling, vision going a little shiny around the edges as he kept his eyes trained on the Witch.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed, searching Mickey’s eyes. “Why is that hot when they do that?”

Mickey breathed a laugh, “Because you’re a fucking freak with a Werewolf fetish.”

“I don’t have a Werewolf fetish,” Ian arches a brow at Mickey, giving him a once over, dragging his eyes slowly up and down Mickey’s body. 

Mickey grins, all teeth, breathing out a rough exhale, fighting against the Witch’s invisible hold, “Yeah? What you call this then?”

Ian shrugs with a little grin, “You know what I call it.”

His stomach tightens at that, listening to Ian’s heartbeat, looking past the dark and seeing the pupils of the redhead’s eyes dilate… yeah, he knows. They don’t talk about that though, because it can’t be real.

It’s like being trapped under wet sand, but Mickey pulls hard and manages to break through, whipping his arm out to drag Ian against him; his movements unnaturally quick. Ian lets out a surprised gasp and grins, leaning forward to press his lips against Mickey’s; slowly, Mickey feels Ian’s hold fade away, his body being gently dropped back onto the floor.

They kiss like that for a little bit, for longer than they should. Mickey holds the back of Ian’s neck and Ian does the same to him, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Mickey breathes hard into Ian’s mouth, their tongues slipping against each other before going back to working their lips slow. 

All of the background noise just fades away for a moment, leaving the two of them, Witch and Werewolf, standing in a run-down building, devouring each other’s mouths. This doesn’t happen often, they don’t make a habit of just _making out_. But it’s so good when it does happen —until Mickey wakes up from his haze and the background noise filters back in.

Ian always gives Mickey this frustrated little huff when Mickey softly pushes him away, “Just a little longer,” he says, sounding all strung-out and desperate.

Mickey, breathing hard, has a hard time getting his head clear, “Such a fucking girl sometimes.”

“Fuck you,” Ian grins, pushing his hips against Mickey, pinning him to the wall again. He takes Mickey’s hands in his own, bringing them above his head, pressing them against the wall. “You like it too.”

Mickey might as well be a puddle of uselessness when Ian leans forward and ghosts his lips across his own, “There’s better things you can do with your fucking mouth.”

Ian rocks his hips against Mickey as he keeps his mouth so close to Mickey’s that he can taste the Witch’s breath, “Yeah, like what?”

“You’re smart, figure it out,” Mickey breathes, his body betraying him as he leans forward to press his mouth to Ian’s.

It’s painfully slow and soft, the kiss. But Mickey can feel his heart stutter in his chest, can hear how Ian’s does the same. It’s not okay, but Mickey pushes down every little voice in the back of his head to end this, to push Ian away and never look back. 

No, he’s not in love with Ian. But only because he couldn't be. 

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly midnight when Mickey gets back home. His dad still isn’t there. He can tell because Terry Milkovich has a very distinct presence. It tastes like violence and blood and hate —something else lingers there too, something that could have once been mistaken for warmth. It’s long gone cold though. 

Mandy pads out of her room when he walks into the house. She eyes him carefully, her brows pulling together, “Dad took Iggy and Colin on a run. He was looking for you. Where were you?”

“Out,” Mickey sighs, making a beeline for the kitchen. He needed a fucking drink.

“You smell like…”

Mickey looked over at her, closing the refrigerator. He keeps his eyes trained on her as he open his beer bottle, taking a few long chugs, daring her to finish the sentence. 

“What? I smell like what?”

“Like you need a shower,” Mandy folds her arms under her chest. 

Something’s been up with her lately. She’s been… _small_ , is the best way Mickey can think to put it. Mandy’s always been the baddest girl he knew. She was tough and kept up with her older brothers -honestly, she was probably the toughest out of all of the kids. But lately… not so much. Lately she’d taken a step back, in her own world, her mouth sewn up tight, weights on her shoulders, dragging her down. 

“No hot water,” Mickey burps, tossing the bottle cap onto the kitchen table; he’s done with this conversation, heading to his room.

He barely hears her next words, “Yeah, well better than smelling like you just fucked Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey freezes mid-stride and snaps his head over to look at his sister, “The fuck you just say?”

“He was my best friend, I remember how he smells,” Mandy looks at him, clear eyes; there’s no judgement, but there’s something else —something that looks a little like resentment. “It’s all over you, all the fucking time. Dad doesn't know what he smells like, but I do. You’re fucking him, aren’t you? Is that where you go after every turn, or when you’re _out_?”

Mickey snarls at his sister, “He’s a Witch. Like hell I’d have anything to do with someone like him.”

“I’m not gonna tell dad—”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Mickey takes another drink of his beer. “You’re wrong.”

“No I’m not,” Mandy narrows her eyes. “You’re fucking him—”

Mickey takes a step toward his sister. “You’re wrong.”

Mandy flicks her eyes away from him and sighs. Mickey stays where he stands for a few moments, keeping his eyes hard and trained on his little sister until her shoulders fall back down. He instantly felt like a piece of shit. 

She wouldn’t’ve ever done that before. She would have challenged him, would have made a disaster of the kitchen. It was how things were done with the Milkovich siblings —with Werewolves. It was just the way all this shit worked. It wasn’t pretty. Nothing ever was.

“Mick…” she trailed off, her voice soft.

He exhales out what feels like five years worth of tension. Mickey relaxes his shoulders, rubbing his hand down his face. They always had this sort of _understanding_. Never had the best relationship, but there was understanding. He trusted her.

“Just keep your fucking mouth shut,” Mickey mumbled before heading to the bathroom.

Mandy fucking knew. She’d evidently known for a while though and never said anything. She wouldn't say anything, Mickey knew that for certain. But still, it was dangerous. And wrong. So fucking wrong. Not that his dad would have _ever_ been okay about him getting fucked by another guy in the first place, but that guy just had to be a _Witch_. And Mickey let Ian use his powers of him, _willingly_ … all but fucking begged for it. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Mickey slammed the bathroom door behind him and rested his hands on the sink, looking at his reflection. Fucking Rabid faggot bitch… Witch fucker. That’s what he was. Before he thought twice about it, Mickey cocked back his fist and rammed it into the mirror.

* * *

 

** Eight Months Ago **

 

He was halfway gone. Halfway consumed. Couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think past that _redredred_ white-hot rage. That _well_ _on his way to Rabid_ rage.

There was dried blood on his hands —hands that were busted up not even an hour before. Mickey rolled his shoulders and paced, taking long pulls from his whiskey bottle, not satisfied, still looking for something to take the edge off. 

The full moon had only just passed, but it was still beckoning Mickey, calling him. The kid whose blood stained his hands… he had it coming. Trying to rip off a Milkovich, trying to _steal_ from a Milkovich. Mickey didn’t kill the kid. Should have. 

_No one_ got away with that shit.

Mickey drained the rest of his whiskey, throwing the glass bottle across the abandoned, overgrown courtyard. He paced back and forth, feeling like his skin was trying to crawl its way off his body, needing to hit something or someone. Needing to hit and tear and destroy until there was nothing left. 

Rabid. _Rabid_. That’s what it came down to: Mickey Milkovich, poster-child for the future Rabids of America. He still couldn't do it, couldn't fucking let go and let his wolf take over. It was bullshit and he didn't understand what the fucking problem was.

He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t fucking soft. _So what was the fucking problem?_

Mickey heard the heavy footsteps long before he heard the voice, “Hey! Asshole!”

His grin was barely a grin, more a of snarl, as Mickey turned his head to see a very angry redhead stomping his way towards him. Something to hit. Just in time.

“The fuck you want, Witch?” Mickey asked, keeping his eyes trained on Ian as he got closer.

Ian didn't answer, instead he threw out his hand. A heavy force hit Mickey straight in the chest, knocking the air out of him as he flew backwards into the building behind him. It hurt, but he’d had worse. 

Mickey growled, low and angry, as he got to his feet, “Big fucking mistake.”

“No,” Ian spat, “Big fucking mistake when you chased down my brother last night!”

“The fuck’re you talk—” Mickey didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. He was thrown backwards again, into the concrete wall, feeling his back cracking under the pressure. Mickey let out a frustrated growl, fighting off Ian’s hold. “Why don’t you drop the hocus pocus bullshit and fight me, bitch?”

Ian had a pretty boy face that was contorted into a disgusted snarl, “Stay away from my family.”

“Didn’t go near your family,” Mickey pushed until he broke through Ian’s hold, advancing on the redhead. “I dunno what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Stop fucking _lying_ ,” Ian bit out. “I know it was you! You threatened him last week!”

(He vaguely remembered saying something along the lines of _“Look at me like that again and I’ll rip your fucking eyes out,”_ to Ian’s younger brother. The kid had a problem with staring at Mickey, and honestly he’d had enough.)

Mickey threw the first punch, landing the hit to the side of Ian’s pretty boy face. Ian stumbled back, holding his face before throwing himself at Mickey, tackling him to the ground. Ian was a good fighter, but Mickey was stronger. They grappled and punched and kneed each other in the gut, snarling curses and insults each other’s way. 

It lasted longer than it should have, wrapping angry hands around throats, taking turns pinning each other, rolling around on the dirty, broken concrete of the courtyard. Mickey couldn't stop the grin as he punched Ian in the jaw again, more so when Ian head-butted him. The Witch put a good fight and it felt _good_.

But reason crept in, slowly, dimly… having a family of Witches after him, for killing this motherfucker, wouldn't be ideal. His father didn’t want to deal with any of that shit; couldn't exactly have a war in the middle of South Side, could they? 

He didn't want to stop… fuck, he really didn't want to stop. But he had to. He had to stow the _redredred_.

“Didn’t fucking go after your brother!” Mickey yelled, grabbing at Ian and twisting them until the redhead was pinned under him again; he raised his fist to deliver his final hit (just for good measure, of course).

“Like fuck you didn’t!” Ian spat up at him, trying to get out from under him. 

His red hair was wildly sticking up everywhere, blood leaking from his split cheek and mouth. There were scrapes and red marks that would bruise, marring his pretty boy face and it stopped Mickey dead in his tracks, his chest heaving with every deep breath. Something stilled inside of him. Something just… _stopped_. The red. It got dimmer and dimmer.

Mickey doesn't know why he said it —it was like his mouth thought independently from his brain, “I don’t even go out. I’m fucking caged; it wasn’t me.”

Ian stills, finally, looking up at him with questioning eyes, “What?”

The truth was, you’d have to be an idiot to not take notice that the redheaded Gallagher boy was attractive. Even Mickey knew that long before now. But in that moment, it was disarming. He was beautiful and angry and fearless —and Mickey couldn't look away. 

Mickey lowers his arm, still breathing hard, “I’m fucking caged. Have been for over a year. It wasn’t me.”

He shouldn't be telling Ian this. Fuck this guy, first of all, assuming that it was him going after his brother. Second of all… you just didn't share that kind of information. It just wasn’t done. But it felt oddly _safe_ to tell the Witch this. The words just came out.

“What —why?” Ian asked.

Mickey shook his head, “Can’t let go,” he murmured.

The Witch’s eyes went from hard and angry to… something different. Something kind of dark and focused. Mickey didn’t move, still seated on Ian’s chest, his knees pinning Ian’s arms down to the ground. The redhead didn't try to get out from under Mickey, his mouth parted just barely as his eyes peered up at him; he wet his lips, and Mickey was kind of entranced by the sight of Ian’s tongue darting out like that.

It was an odd and deeply perverse thought, but Mickey wanted to know what the Witches blood tasted like, wanted to lick the corner of his mouth to find out. He wanted to see if the Witch had bruises over his ribs from Mickey’s punches… wanted to see what that barely crooked jaw would look like stretched open, those lips wrapped around him while the redhead was on his knees. His body was betraying him, craving a _Witch_ like that.

The bright, blaring white-hot red was gone; replaced by darker red, deep like rubies. Flecks of greenish-blue. He had to hold onto it, he had to take it. It’s what he needed. Somehow he just knew. That deep red, that greenish-blue. _Yes_.

Mickey let all reason and good common sense fly away as he shifted, scooting down Ian’s body, freeing up his arms. He did this so he could lean over the redhead, putting his face just inches away from Ian’s, one of his hands planting on the ground, by side of the Witch’s head, the other slipping into that deep red, feeling the strands between his fingers. Mickey could hear Ian’s heartbeat stutter and hear his breath hitch, something about his smell drew him in.

Neither one of them said anything, didn’t dare open their mouths. Vaguely, Mickey felt hands hesitantly brush against the outside of his thighs fingernails scratching over the denim. 

He leaned down further and gave in to his earlier perverse craving, taking one slow, purposeful lick at the blood gathered at the corner of Ian’s mouth, unable to control the low growl from bubbling up from his belly. 

Mickey didn't have a _blood thing_ , never had a fetish for it or anything like that, and even right in that moment he wasn’t into it _that_ way. He wasn’t sure how to even describe this primal part of him just… just fucking doing it. It didn’t make any sense, but it did, and it was so fucked up that Mickey just accepted that he needed to do that, without knowing anything further. 

And that’s when it started. Because instead of scrambling away, instead of pushing Mickey off of him with disgust or fear… Ian grabbed the back of Mickey’s head, pulling him in for a hard kiss. Mickey had never kissed another guy before, hadn’t ever wanted to. But Ian… instant addiction, instant instinct. _Yes, this is right, this is what he needed._

Between the taste of Ian’s mouth, the taste of his blood, and the feel of the taller boy harden under him… Mickey knew this was the _worst_ fucking situation he could have fallen into. But he had zero desire to pull himself out of it. 

 

* * *

 

There was a decent sized crack in the ceiling of Mickey’s bedroom. He stared at it, laying on his bed, his hair wet with cold water from his shower, body betraying him again because he couldn't shake the sound Ian makes when he comes. Mickey replays it over and over in his head, closes his eyes and focuses on that sound.

He’d give anything not to feel whatever he felt towards the Witch. He’d give anything to be able to walk away. If he were fucking smart, he _would_ walk away. Nothing good comes from associating with Witches, let alone caring about one of them.

Mickey was so completely fucked.

There was no warning knock right before Mickey’s dad swung the door open. Mickey glanced over, his brows raising in question, his whole body tensing. Terry’s permanent frown deepened as he threw two revolvers onto Mickey’s bed.

“Clean ‘em,” he said.

Mickey sighed in relief, rolling to reach for the box under his bed.

“Where the fuck were you?” Terry asked, folding his arms under his chest.

“Out,” Mickey replied, forcing himself to stay steady and passive —a trick that he learned pretty fucking quickly in life, living with his father.

“Out where?”

He took a deep breath, looking over at his father, “Just out. Needed some air.”

Terry grunted, wiping at his mouth, “Better get your head on right before next turn. Meant what I fucking said. Ain’t having no Rabid son.”

Mickey got that urge to vomit again, because he knew his dad wasn’t fucking around. It wasn’t an empty threat. It was so fucked up, how his father just threw that out there, so matter-of-factly, like it didn't fucking mean anything. Like killing his own son was justified. Mickey knew that in his fathers mind, it _was_ justified. Mickey wouldn’t have been the first Milkovich —or the first Werewolf— killed by their own family for being Rabid. It was a harsh, ugly reality.

“I’ll fix it,” Mickey said quickly, unloading his father’s guns so he could clean them.

“Yeah,” Terry sneered, “We’ll see. Hurry up and clean those. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Where’re you going?” Mickey asked.

Terry plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it up, a billowing cloud of smoke drifting between him and Mickey, “Got some business to take care of in Denver. Shouldn't be more than a week.”

Mickey nodded, “You need help?”

“No,” Terry took a long drag of his cigarette, “I need you to stay here and hold shit down.”

It was kind of sick and hilarious. Mickey was good enough to hold down the fort, good enough to be trusted to handle shit while his father way away… but that didn't excuse him from a bullet. It didn’t mean shit when he was in the middle of a turn, unable to surrender to the wolf like he was supposed to.

Terry turned to leave, but then turned back like he remembered something, “Monday night, go collect from Kavanagh.”

“Done,” Mickey nodded, still working on his fathers revolvers. “How much?”

“Ten grand,” Terry grunted. “After the gas bill, don’t fucking touch it, understand?”

Mickey nodded again. Like he was stupid enough to do that shit. He watched Terry leave, not bothering to close his bedroom door on the way out. 

His hands were a little shaky, but Mickey powered through to clean the guns. It didn't take long to get the job done; Mickey handed them off to Iggy when he came in, looking for cigarettes.

Mickey tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. It was hard to relax when he kept repeating his father’s words in his mind. Long gone was the sound of Ian coming, replaced by _“You will let go. Or you’ll be in the ground. That’s a fucking promise.”_ Over and over again, like the worst broken record in history.

He tossed and turned under his sheets, needing to calm down. Mickey hated being restless, hated that sick, dragging panic that settled at the base of his throat. Living with his future executioner was gnawing away at his sanity. He couldn't do this shit anymore. 

If he was going to go Rabid anywhere, it would be here. Maybe… maybe if he wasn’t _here_ anymore, he’d be able to let go. Maybe the cage was the problem, being treated like some fucked up stray dog, being watched with judging, careful eyes. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. 

So he waited. He sat up in bed, lit up a cigarette (after cigarette, after cigarette, after cigarette…) waiting for morning to come. Like a junkie looking for their next score, Mickey’s hands shook, eyes shifted all around his room as he went over his plan in his head. Over and over again, obsessive about the details. 

Fuck this house. His family. Mickey was done. He’d get that ten grand from Kavanagh and fucking leave. Running away like a little bitch coward, but at least he’d still be alive.

 

* * *

 

Mickey stared at the stack of cash in front of him. Ten thousand dollars. It was a lot of money, but in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't get him terribly far, but far enough. He’d get a good head start before Terry found him. And Terry _would_ find him. Running was almost pointless —but not pointless enough to _not_.

Taking money away from his family so he could tuck his tail and run. What a fucking dick move. He couldn't justify it beyond keeping himself safe for now. Mickey didn't like feeling selfish, didn't like selfish people. Sometimes you had to be selfish though, right? Sometimes you had to look out for yourself. Even if that meant hurting your siblings, taking money out of their hands, food out of their mouths… right? God, he was a fucking monster.

Mickey pressed the heels of his hands to his stinging eyes, just so lost. So fucking lost and confused. He needed to clear his head before he did anything else. Before he started packing up. His father would be back in five days, now was not the time to be second guessing.

He stashed the money under his bed —there was a pocket he made at the bottom of his mattress— before he pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen; he sighed, shaking his head. He just kept getting more and more pathetic.

“Hey,” Ian’s voice answered after the third ring. His name was under Red, which wasn’t terribly _not obvious_ if someone went through his phone.

“You busy?” Mickey asked.

“I mean, I’m working…”

Mickey sighed heavily, running a hand over his hair, “I uh… okay. Nevermind—”

“You okay?” Ian asked. 

“Yeah,” Mickey lied.

“Just come to the store,” Ian said. “I got a break in like twenty.”

“A’ight,” Mickey breathed before he hung up.

Twenty-two minutes later, Mickey was pushed up against the shelves inside the Kash and Grab freezer with his pants down around his knees. Ian looked up at him from his position on his knees, his mouth wrapped around his cock. Mickey reached down, brushing his fingers through red hair and sighed, watching Ian.

All of it went away —his mind clearing out all the bullshit and instead filling up with the safeness of Ian Gallagher, with how fucking good the Witch was with his mouth, how good Ian looked like that, how it was just them. Mickey punched out a moan, rocking his hips as Ian swallowed him down, taking as much as he could before replacing his mouth with his hand for a moment.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbled, reaching for Ian’s hair again, needing it between his fingers. “So fucking good.”

Ian grinned up at him, licking a long, slow stripe up the underside of Mickey’s cock before swallowing him back down again. Mickey closed his eyes tight, feeling his knees threaten to give out. Ian moaned around him and Mickey held onto the shelves to keep from falling down, it was so good. 

Ian kept moaning around his cock like a some kind of pornstar, kept making Mickey’s legs tremble under him until he had to reach forward, behind Ian, holding onto the shelves there instead. Otherwise he was absolutely going to fall over.

It built up, that urgency, that need to come. Everything tightened up, went all buzzy and faded around the edges, threatening to break Mickey apart.

“Fuck, fuck… fu-fuck,” Mickey chanted, reaching down with one hand to hold onto Ian’s hair as he jerked his hips forward.

Ian let him fuck his mouth, swallowing him down, kept his fingers firmly digging into his hips as Mickey punched out broken grunts and growled as it built even further. When Ian gave his hips a good, firm squeeze, Mickey let go with a loud, low moan, knees trembling without his consent. 

Ian worked him with his mouth and hand until he was spent and overstimulated. There was something really sick but good about that overstimulation. It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but Mickey kind of liked it.

When the Witch stood up, Mickey, still gasping for breath, chest heaving, grabbed the back of his neck and pressed his mouth to Ian’s. He tasted himself on the redhead, licking at the inside of his mouth, searching for that taste of himself mixed with Ian. _Mine mine mine_.

It would probably be the last time he’d taste that. The last time he’d be with Ian. It had to be like this, if he wanted to get away from his father, get away from all this bullshit. So he was going to savor this moment, that feeling of sick possessiveness that overwhelmed him when he tasted himself on Ian’s tongue.

“Going on with you?” Ian panted, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s. He blindly reached down, tugging Mickey’s pants back up around his hips.

Mickey curled his hand in Ian’s shirt, his eyes trained on the center of his collarbone, not wanting to look the redhead in the eyes. “Nothing.”

Ian was silent for a moment, dipping his head down to brush his lips against Mickey’s, nipping at him there, “Seriously.”

“Drop it,” Mickey sighed.

But Ian stilled, taking a step back, his eyes wide, “You’re leaving.”

Mickey snarled, feeling heat flood his body, despite being in a freezer. That shit was fucking invasive and pissed him off. The Witch _knew_ that, “Told you not to do that shit. Get the fuck out of my head.”

“The hell am I supposed to do, if you won’t talk to me —you’re fucking _leaving_?”

Mickey zipped and buttoned up his jeans, fixing his clothes.

“That’s it? You were just going to come get blown then just _leave_ , without saying anything? No goodbye, nothing?” Ian’s shook his head.

“You don’t get it,” Mickey snarled, reaching for the door handle.

Ian grabbed at his arm and twisted him around, “Then explain it to me.”

Mickey raised his brows at the redhead, “Don’t have to explain shit to you, we ain’t like that. This… it’s just fucking.”

Ian just kept staring at him, saying nothing. And it pissed him off even more, it pissed Mickey off so much because fuck this guy. Ian could play his little mind tricks and get in his head. He could read Mickey like a fucking book. Fuck. This. Guy.

“It’s just fucking,” Mickey said again, slower this time. 

Again, Ian stayed silent, brows just barely raising.

“What, did you think I was gonna ask you to come with me or something?” Mickey curled his lip back. “You think—”

“Fuck you,” Ian finally said. “You wanna leave… nothing I can do to stop you. But don’t lie to my face and say _this_ is just fucking,” he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Mickey’s ear, “Especially since I know it was you who beat the shit out of that guy who blew me last month. You sent him to the fucking hospital, Mick. You almost killed him for putting his mouth on me, touching what is yours.”

Mickey pushed Ian away with a snarl, “You don’t know shit.”

“I know you care about me. You lie to yourself all the fucking time, but I know the truth,” Ian said. “And for the fucking record, asshole, I only let that guy blow me because you let some North Side skank blow you for coke.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey said —the only thing he could say. “A mouth’s a mouth.”

“You’re so full of shit.” Ian shook his head. “You let that happen for your fucking dad’s sake. Which I still don’t get because he fucking _knows_ —”

Mickey barked a laugh and shook his head; Ian had no idea how this shit worked. He had no idea what it was like to have Terry Milkovich as a father, “If you think it means _anything_ that he knows, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

“Whatever, Mickey. The point is, you care about me. And you know how I feel about you,” Ian kept running his fucking mouth. “And you were just gonna leave me —us?”

“There’s no us!” Mickey yelled. “There can’t be an us! Don’t be so fucking stupid, Gallagher. Even if my dad _wasn’t_ a fucking issue, there could never be an us.”

“Why?” Ian challenged. “Because the _rules_? My family doesn’t give a shit—”

“Oh get fucked,” Mickey snorted, turned away from Ian, walking out of the freezer, “You say that shit, but the minute you walk into your fucking house with a Werewolf, you _know_ your family —I’m not even talking about this shit right now. Fuck this. Fuck you.”

Ian grabbed onto his arm again, stilling him, “Just wait a second.”

They stood in front of the register, Mickey’s brows perched high, waiting for Ian to say whatever the fuck he was going to say. Someone knocked on the locked door of the store. Mickey raised a middle finger and told them to fuck off. They did.

“When are you leaving?” Ian asked.

Mickey sighed, eyes flicking around the store, “After I pack my shit.”

Ian looked around, floundering, “You got money?”

“Ten grand. Stealing it from my dad, but…” Mickey shrugged. 

Ian ran a hand over his hair, looking completely lost on words. He fidgeted, opening and closing his mouth a couple times, “Where… where are you going?”

Mickey shrugged again. He was getting kind of numb. He didn’t really want to have this conversation; it was making whatever he and Ian had harder to walk away from. It was a mistake coming here; he should have known, “Dunno yet.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Ian murmured. 

“If I don’t let go, my dad’s going to put a gun in my hand, and when I don’t kill myself with it, he’s going to do it for me. It’s going to happen,” Mickey said slowly. “So unless you got any bright fucking ideas, I _have_ to go.”

Ian slumped his shoulders in defeat, “You gonna come back?” 

Mickey wanted to tell Ian _no_ , but he couldn't bring himself to get the words out. He took one last long look at the redhead and reached out for the door to the Kash and Grab. Then Ian, glassy-eyed and quick, wedged himself between Mickey and the door, holding Mickey’s face in his hands, pressing his forehead to his.

Mickey put his hands on top of Ian’s and sighed; the Witch wasn’t supposed to pull this kind of shit, he wasn’t supposed to show his cards like this, it was too fucking dangerous, he _knew_ that, “You can’t fucking do this shit.”

“I don’t care,” Ian said. “I’m not ready—”

“Don’t,” Mickey sighed.

Ian dipped his head, kissing Mickey, curling his fingers against the sides of his face. Mickey kissed him back, holding onto Ian’s balled up fists, sighing into the slow, drawn out movement of their lips.

“Just got you,” Ian whispered.

“Can’t have me,” Mickey whispered back, “Can’t have you.”

They weren’t supposed to talk about this shit. They weren't supposed to put it out there, make it real, make it harder to walk away from. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But Mickey was leaving and kind of forgetting his own rules, forgetting that he was supposed to keep his mouth fucking shut. He felt like shit. Felt fucking awful. But he was out of options, trying to fucking stay alive.

“I have to go,” Mickey said.

“Just… let me know you’re okay,” Ian murmured. “Whenever you get where you end up. Promise me.”

“Okay,” Mickey sighed.

“Promise me.”

“Promise.”

Ian kissed him again, fisting both hands into his hair, he kissed him hard. Mickey kissed him back, matching Ian’s desperation because fuck everything if he didn't feel it too. 

Then that was it. 

 

* * *

 

The truth was that he didn’t have a plan beyond packing his clothes up, grabbing a couple guns and just… going. Mickey tried not to think of Ian. He tried not to replay those last moments in the Kash and Grab; the kiss, the words, the fact that every fiber in his fucking body was coated in dread and regret already.

He stopped shoving clothes into a duffle bag and took a deep breath, feeling his eyes sting. It wasn’t even remotely fucking fair. Mickey sat on his bed, staring at the walls of his room —the posters and shitty little drawings, the clutter all piled up. 

It was a shitty room but it was his room. In his house. The house could barely be called a home, but it was still where he grew up. It was still where his family was. The family he was stealing from. The family he was leaving. Like a weak little bitch.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed, wiping at his eyes. He was taught better than to run away from a fight. Wouldn't be much of a fight though, would it? A few more weeks and he’d be dead. He wasn’t ready to die yet. 

He got back to work, falling back into survival mode, shoving clothes in his bag, rooting around all his drawers, looking for whatever he thought he would need. Fuck all of this, he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

“Oh my god.”

Mickey stilled, whipping around to see his sister standing in the doorway of his room. Her eyes were impossibly wide, mouth hanging open. She shook her head in disbelief.

“You’re leaving?” Mandy asked, sounding so weak and small and nothing at all like his sister. Who the fuck was this girl, where did his fierce bitch of a sister go?

“Not staying here and getting killed,” Mickey said.

Mandy didn’t say anything for a minute, while she watched Mickey continue to pack. He tried not to look at her, didn’t want to see that hurt look in her eyes.

“Mickey, wait,” she finally said. “I’m… take me with you.”

He turned to face her, brows drawn together, “What?”

“Please take me with you,” Mandy wrung her hands in front of herself. “I can’t stay here. If you leave… just please take me with you.”

“Why?”

It had been a long fucking time since Mickey saw his sister cry. So when her eyes welled up and her nose got all red, he knew something was very… _very_ wrong. He took a step towards her, not really knowing what to do, how to comfort her. He wasn’t good at that shit. Never really had been. She folded in on herself, making herself small again, shaking her head.

“The fuck’s going on with you?” Mickey asked, unable to keep it to himself anymore. 

“I’m…” she sniffed, wiping roughly at her eyes. She shook her head again, chewing on her lips. 

“Seriously, Mandy,” Mickey said. “You haven’t been acting right. You on something? You sick? The fuck’s going on with you lately?”

She took a deep breath, lifting her shoulders up in a helpless shrug, “I’m pregnant.”

The two words, said so hollowly, just hung there in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Mickey wondered if he heard her right, hoped that he didn’t. But there was no mistaking what Mandy said, he’d replayed it about twenty times already. Pregnant.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Does dad know?”

Mandy covered her face, taking a deep breath before she looked at him, like she was waiting for something terrible to happen, like she was waiting for him to figure something out. A silent, short conversation between the two, with their understanding of each other.

It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Mickey to feel a whole other pull of dread in his gut. Dread turned to sick, turned to anger and disgust. He went cold. Terry Milkovich was a lot of shitty things, Mickey just didn’t think he’d… he didn’t think that his father was capable of doing something like that _to his own daughter_. Fuck. His little sister. _Fuck_. How did he not know this shit was going on? How did he not fucking _see_ this?

He thought he was going to puke, wanted to break everything, wanted to wait for his dad to come back home and kill the motherfucker. His hands were clenching and shaking, his body just turning completely numb and cold, like all the blood was just _leaving_ him. What kind of fucking monster… how the fuck did Mickey not see this shit? Where the fuck _was_ he?

“What the fuck,” Mickey felt his knees weaken a little; he sat back down on his bed, keeping hie eyes on his sister. “What the fuck. How… how long—”

“I don’t wan’t to talk about it,” Mandy said, her voice soft. “I want to leave. And I want to get rid of this _thing_. So, please… _please_ take me with you.”

What was he going to do, say no? Fuck that. He’d fucking dropped the ball enough as a brother, he wasn't going to leave Mandy here with that man. Mickey nodded, numb, lost, angry all rolled into one, all he could do was nod.

Mandy turned and left his room to go pack. Mickey was left still sitting on his bed. The anger boiled up again. White hot and vicious… Rabid anger. All he could think about was breaking every bone in his father’s body. Killing him, over and over again. Gutting him and emptying a clip of silver into his face. 

He was in a haze as he grabbed onto his dresser and threw it to the other side of his room. It hit the wall, the piece of shit furniture breaking apart and breaking off chunks of drywall in the process. 

How had he not known this shit was going on under the same roof as he fucking slept? Why didn’t Mandy say something sooner? He would have taken her away from this shit. They didn’t always get along, but shit, he would have gotten her out of here.

Mickey took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He had to focus. Had to try to push down that almost-Rabid side of him and pack the rest of his shit and leave. Fuck this life, this house, his father, all of it. 

 

* * *

 

It was only by a series of lucky breaks did they get the fuck out of Chicago. 

Iggy and Colin were out of the house; Mickey and Mandy took the L to the nearest bus station. Mickey plopped down some cash at the little window and asked for two tickets to wherever the next bus was going. The lady at the window did look oddly at him, but didn't ask any questions. There was only one bus left with available seating, that was headed out of town. And that bus happened to be going in the opposite direction of where Terry was.

So that’s how they ended up sitting on a (thankfully) nearly empty bus, on their way to Ohio. Mickey didn’t know shit about Ohio, neither did Mandy. It was a ten hour ride, with one stop on the way to switch to a different bus. Both buses smelled like old laundry and feet, but they were quiet, letting the pair of them fall asleep for nearly the entire time. 

Mandy fell asleep before Mickey did, her head lolling to the side, resting on his shoulder. Mickey would have normally shoved her off but he didn't mind that time. She was exhausted from relief, he could feel her already beginning to relax, could hear her heart rate slow down to something that wasn’t so anxious. Let her sleep, let her drool on his shoulder, Mickey didn't give a shit anymore, it wasn’t important. He just wanted the both of them safe. 

They didn’t speak the whole time, not really… nothing beyond asking each other if they were okay, or asking if they were hungry, stupid shit like that. Mandy was lost in her own world, as was Mickey. 

They both grew up way too fast, but now was the time that it was put to the test. Now was the time to step up and be fucking adults —saving themselves, removing themselves from the line of fire once and for all. 

But Mickey felt a nagging sense of regret… leaving Iggy and Colin behind. They would be okay though, they were relatively safe —for the most part— around their father. Mickey tried not to think about his brothers and the fact that he turned his back on them. What a fucked up thing to do. Maybe they would understand one day. Maybe.

It was around three hours into the second bus ride, when both Mickey and his sister were awake, did Mandy finally _really_ speak.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” Mickey grunted, looking out of the window, watching trees roll by.

“Did you say goodbye to Ian?” she asked.

Mickey looked over at his sister, not really know how to respond. It was all out there now, she knew, there was no hiding it… what was the point. They were all each other had anymore, “Yeah.”

“You love him?”

Mickey snorted a humorless laugh, shrugging his shoulders, “Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

“I used to love him like that,” Mandy said, just barely above a whisper. “I knew he would have never loved me back, but…”

Thinking about Ian was the one thing that Mickey had made it a point to not do for the entire time they were on the bus. But he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would start saying shit that he couldn't take back. So he just sat there, staring at the back of the seat in front of him, trying to keep his breathing steady.

“There’s something about him,” Mandy added. “He makes you feel—”

“Safe,” Mickey’s mouth betrayed him.

Mandy sighed, “Safe, yeah.”

“I don’t… really wanna talk about him,” Mickey said carefully.

“Okay,” Mandy said, leaning her head on his shoulder again. 

 

* * *

 

** Six Months Ago **

 

The phone call had been frantic and brief, and at two in the morning. Mickey rolled over in bed, bringing his phone with him under the covers, blindly pressing it to his ear. He didn’t even get the words of a well-placed threat out before Ian’s voice cut through the line.

“I need to see you.”

“You outta your fucking mind?” Mickey yawned, burrowing deeper into his blankets, “Fucking sleeping.”

“Please,” Ian asked, breathing hard.

“Come on, man.”

There was a pause, a breath, the sound of a chain link fence gate slamming shut, “Please, Mick… I’m sorry I woke you up, I just… _please_. I need to see you.”

Mickey sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He threw his blanket off of him and sat up in bed, “The fuck’s going on?”

“Can you just meet me?” Ian pressed, “My mom… I can’t do this shit, please?”

Mickey nodded, slowly getting up fromhis bed, “I’ll meet you in twenty.”

After stretching, Mickey looked back at his bed and shook his head with a sigh. So much for sleeping through the night. He got dressed, not bothering to try and smooth down his hair because that shit, he knew, was a lost cause.

Iggy was out in the living room, still awake and watching some shitty infomercial on television. He probably wouldn't even go to sleep until morning.

“Where you going?” he asked Mickey.

“Out,” Mickey replied, “Can’t sleep.”

“Bring me back some beer and a pack of Swishers?”

Mickey pulled a face, “Iggy, it’s two in the fucking morning. Ain’t shit open around here—”

“Walgreens, bitch,” Iggy sucked his teeth. “Twenty-four hours.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Your ass is paying me back.”

Mickey shrugged his jacket on and left, slamming the door behind him —because his dad was out of town and he didn't have to worry about the motherfucker barging out of his room,questioning him further. It took him a little more than twenty minutes to get to his and Ian’s usual meeting spot, mostly because he was moving slower than normal. He was still tired, never one to react too kindly to being woken up from a dead sleep.

The Witch was pulling on a joint when Mickey got there, looking like he’d been through the fucking ringer. He sat on the dirty floor, back leaning against the wall, knees bent, looking much smaller than he was.

“Ay,” Mickey slid down the wall to sit next to him. 

Ian passed the joint over, Mickey took it, “Sorry about this,” Ian mumbled.

“Eh, I wasn’t getting much sleep anyway,” Mickey lied with a shrug.

Quiet settled between them as they passed the joint back and forth until there was nothing big enough to hold onto. Mickey couldn't even get properly high anymore, not since he started turning, but he had a good little buzz going, not caring that Ian was leaning heavily against his shoulder.

“My mom just fucking showed up tonight,” Ian finally said. “Haven’t seen her since I was about… I don’t even know. Long time.”

Mickey breathed a humorless laugh, “Just fucked off? Damn.”

“Yeah,” was all Ian said.

He knew that this was the point where he was supposed to say something comforting, but Mickey didn't exactly know what the protocol for this shit was. _Sorry your mom abandoned you then randomly showed up, I know that must be fucking stressful?_ What the fuck would that do? Nothing. So instead he let the silence stretch further, something stirring in his chest, an urge that he wasn’t completely sure to identify as.

“She a bitch to you?” Mickey asked.

Ian sighed, “I wish she was.”

Mickey twisted his brows up, keeping his mouth shut. She was obviously enough of a bitch to not give a shit about all her damn kids, up and leaving them like that. Mickey’d heard around South Side that the Gallagher mom was gone, but he never cared enough to find out what happened. People just left sometimes.

“She just comes in and tries to be super-mom. But she always fucks everything up and then leaves again,” Ian finally added, his voice low but edged with resentment. “Always on something… got mixed up in Dark shit that… I don’t even know. It fucked her up.”

“My mom left a couple times before she died,” Mickey said, his eyes immediately closing because he hadn’t meant to say that shit out loud. That was one of the bad things about Ian: he created this safe little space between them, easing Mickey into this _comfort_ , relaxing him. 

Ian kept quiet but Mickey could feel his green eyes on him.

Mickey exhaled roughly, running a hand over his face, “She said she was uh, you know, finding a place to go to get away from my dad. Said she was coming back to get us. I dunno though. Seemed like a lie.”

“How’d she die?” Ian asked.

Mickey looked over at the Witch, his bottom lip working between his teeth while he tried to pull the words out. “She uh… she couldn’t handle it anymore. She wasn’t born into this shit, she was turned. So… you know how that goes.”

“Oh,” Ian said, understanding laced in his voice.

Most people who are turned —who weren’t born with the curse in their veins— can’t handle their new life, the pain. Most people who are turned end up eating a silver bullet sooner or later. Mickey’s mother, Vira, was just another statistic. 

He’d never forget coming home with his siblings to that. That had been a fucking nightmare, bloody like something straight out of a horror movie, and Mickey had only been nine years old. Colin had never been the brightest bulb in the pack, but that day he took care of everything, calling their dad, making Mickey and Iggy take Mandy to their rooms so they didn't have to see. Colin had barely been fourteen, but Mickey never forgot how fucking _in control_ and calm he’d been. Thank god for Colin.

It was the one and only time Mickey ever saw his dad somewhat sad. Terry was a piece of shit who didn’t love anyone, but Mickey knew that he cared about Vira as much as he was capable of caring about someone. He did beat on her though. He used to beat on her a lot, apologize, buy her things, repeating this sick cycle that trapped her. 

It was complicated and Mickey knew it was wrong; he didn’t excuse his father’s behavior. He just knew that when it happened and Terry came home, he took one look at his wife and his shoulders slumped down right before he fell to his knees. It was the first and last time Mickey saw his father do that.

“Sorry,” Ian said.

Mickey shrugged, “It was a long time ago, man.”

“Still.”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighs, trying to figure out how he went from sleeping all comfy in his bed, to sitting in a broken down building with Ian Gallagher talking about his mother. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

A week came and went.

There were dozens of missed calls, threatening voicemails, angry text messages. All from their father —not even concerned with the fact that they left, but that they stole his money. It always came down to money with Terry though, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise. He threatened death —threatened to rip Mickey apart. (Then again, it was ten thousand fucking dollars, _of course_ he’d be raging about that, who wouldn’t be?)

Mickey and Mandy moved from one shitty little town to a different one, finally dumping their phones and getting a couple burners. The voicemails and texts, obviously, stopped.

Mandy got into a clinic. She cried a lot —Mickey could tell she wasn’t crying because she wanted the baby, because she didn’t. She cried because she was ashamed, because she never asked for any of that shit to happen. She cried because it wasn’t fair or right or her choice, she’d been forced into a terrible situation, forced to deal with the aftermath. 

Mickey didn't know how to comfort her, how to even begin to try to make her feel better. They smoked in silence a lot, or watched shitty reality shows. It seemed to help Mandy some, but Mickey knew in the back of his mind, that it wasn’t enough, or _wouldn't_ be enough, in the long-run. He didn't know how to help her. Felt useless.

Mickey hadn’t called Ian. He promised he would, but he just couldn't bring himself to. He thought about him constantly. Even would go so far as to say that he missed him. Not even for the sex — _because the sex was damn worth missing_ — but just for that safeness that Mandy had even felt with the redhead. With Ian, Mickey had always felt safe; safe to just… _be_.

“If we’re staying here, we should look for work before the money runs out,” Mandy came into their hotel room after getting snacks from the shitty motel’s shitty vending machine. She threw him a bag of chips and a can of soda, “You know, so we have a cushion. Save up.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah.”

“That mean we’re staying?”

He shrugged, cracking open his can. Part of him wanted to stay, the other part wanted to keep heading East, wanted to get as far away from their father as they could. 

Mandy stared at him, hands kind of thrown out in frustration, “This was _your_ plan, Mickey… what the fuck are we doing?”

He curled his lip back at his sister, “I’m figuring it out.”

“Are you?” Mandy asked, shoulders falling. “Because it doesn't look like you are. It looks like you hit a fucking wall. So if I need to take over and decide what we do—”

“I’m figuring it out!” Mickey snapped. “I just fucking told you that!”

“I need something to do!” Mandy stomped her foot, fists balled up at her sides. Yeah, she looked like a damn child, but it was the first spark of fire he’d seen in his sisters eyes in a long time. “I can’t sit in here all day and _think_! So either we stay, or we keep moving. Make a fucking decision, or else I will!”

“Then what do you think we should do?” Mickey snarled. “Suggestion box is fucking open. I don’t hear you coming up with any fucking plans either!”

The hard truth was that they were floundering. Taking care of themselves in South Side was one thing. Limited resources, yes, but in South Side they had connections, if they needed them. Out in the real world though? They had nothing. No one.

“Then I think we should stay,” Mandy said. “This place is a cheap, small town shit-hole. Secluded, lots of land around, easy to pick up and leave if we need to… could be good for us. Give it a little while, then we move on, because I don’t think we should stay in one place for too long.”

Mickey nodded, surrendering to his sister’s idea because he was all out of fucking energy to even give a shit anymore. 

The other hard truth was that not only were they floundering, but Mickey was waiting for their father to show up. Didn’t really matter where they ended up, the conclusion would always be the same. So Mandy was right, it was best if they didn’t stay in one place for too long.

“Then we stay.”

Mandy took a deep breath, wiping roughly at her eyes, “Okay… okay, good. Tomorrow we start looking for work. And an actual place to live. I’m gonna go fucking crazy in this room.”

Then another week passed. Another week closer to the full moon, closer to Mickey having to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do during said full moon. By another stroke of sheer luck, Mandy found a job right away. She started working at this diner, waitressing. It paid shit, but she got to keep all of her tips, so that was a plus. 

It took Mickey until the end of the second week to find somewhere to work. It seemed as though small towns in Ohio didn’t exactly take too kindly to the tattoos etched across his knuckles. The only place willing to take him on was one of those convenient store places (it was basically a 7-11), working the graveyard shift. Again, shitty pay, but he didn’t have to deal with people hardly ever, so that was another plus.

Mickey _still_ hadn’t called Ian. Dialed the number countless times, almost hit send, but never did. He didn’t really know why —maybe because knowing he’d never see the Witch again, he was trying to save himself. Maybe because he was a coward. Running away from home, avoiding his… whatever Ian had been. Didn’t matter anymore.

His first night working at the gas station, Mandy stopped by with a flyer, “Found this place a couple days ago. Finally talked to the landlord today. Real fucking cheap, and it’s like a block away from here.”

Mickey sighed, resting his elbows on the counter, “This couldn't have fucking waited until tomorrow?”

“Oh, you mean when you’ll be sleeping and I’ll be working?”

“Fine,” he shrugged, “How much?”

“Four-fifty a month,” Mandy smirked proudly. “It’s an apartment above this little coffee place. The outside looks decent enough… I mean, we’ve lived in worse conditions so…”

Mickey shrugged, not being able to bring himself to care as much as Mandy did, “Fine.”

His sister frowned at him, “What’s up with you? This is good, get us out of that hotel.”

“I said it was fucking fine,” Mickey narrowed his eyes at her.

“Whatever,” Mandy rolled her eyes, fishing a few bills out of her pocket, “I need cigarettes.”

And so after going to look at the place the next day, they moved into the small two-bedroom apartment above the coffee place. The landlord was a nice old lady who didn’t ask too many questions; plus, there wasn’t exactly a long line of applicants in the tiny town, looking to move in, so once they decided that they wanted it, it was theirs to rent —month to month, all cash. Pretty ideal set-up.

The apartment came completely empty. No furniture. Mickey and Mandy obviously hadn't come into town with any furniture, just their bags of clothes. So they had to dip into the money they stole from their father to get the very basics —mattresses, blankets, card table and two folding chairs to eat on. Yeah, they’d lived in worse, but they always had… _furniture_. It was a necessary adjustment. They were Milkovich’s. They could fucking deal.

 

* * *

 

“Do you miss him?”

“Who?”

“Ian, do you miss him?”

“Told you I don’t wanna fucking talk about him.”

“You never do.”

“That should give you a hint to stop bringing him the fuck up.”

“You know what, you’ve turned into a complete asshole.”

“Pretty sure I was always an asshole.”

“Yeah, but then you got better. Now you’re back to that and it sucks.”

“Things change, Mands.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened. 
> 
> I don't like asking, _at all_ , but I'd really appreciate feedback on this so far. I've been super nervous to post this, never having shared any _serious_ "supernatural" type stories I've written before -with anyone... ever. Gah. I just really hope that you all like it so far :)


	2. The Safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be 18k words... I really tried to edit this as well as I could, but you guys I was like falling asleep most of the time lmao
> 
>  **Content Warning:** There is a 2 part flashback scene involving Ian and Mickey being dumb teenage boys, doing dumb shit, involving a six-story building. I don't want to spoil anything, **but if this sounds like something that might trigger you or bother you in any way,** please see the end notes for the full warning/explanation of what this is/why this is.

**Five Months Ago**

 

Ian took a drag from his cigarette and passed it over to Mickey, who was buttoning his jeans back up. The brunette took it, brushing their fingers together, making Ian wish that for a second they could do something completely fucking lame like hold hands ( _lame_ , only because Mickey would make his asshole comments about it). 

Mickey had callouses on his palms and dirt under his fingernails, but that never stopped Ian from craving their touch. Mickey’s touch was a direct reflection of the state of his hands, but cold also be so soft and loving that Ian forgot to breathe sometimes.

They leaned against the wall, inside of their usual abandoned building, in silence. Sometimes the silence was nice, just hanging out. Sometimes Mickey would look over at Ian, and would let Ian look back at him for a little while. Mickey was rough and dirty, but he was beautiful. Something about the Werewolf made Ian feel grounded; he was like an anchor, holding Ian down when shit in his life — _in his family_ — spun and drifted in chaos.

Ian liked Mickey. He _more_ than liked Mickey… he’d never been in love before, but maybe it was love. It felt right to call it that. But they couldn't really afford that. Even though Ian knew how Mickey felt about him. 

He reached out and touched the Werewolf’s mind sometimes (he knew it was fucking rude and unwelcome, but sometimes when they were fucking, he couldn't help it if he tried), feeling what Mickey felt, getting blurred flavors of his desires and fears. 

So Ian knew that Mickey cared about him. He knew that Mickey hated that he cared about him and wanted to stop, but didn’t know how. Ian didn’t know if it made the situation worse or better: knowing what both of them felt but not being able to really do anything about it other than fuck in dirty, run-down buildings late at night.

“Ay, you want this?” by the soft light of the moon, Ian saw Mickey holding out his butterfly knife. 

He drew his brows together, slowly taking the knife, “Sure.”

“Got a new one a few days ago,” Mickey shrugged.

Ian’s stomach flipped a little as he pocketed the knife, “You sure?”

Mickey shrugged again, “Yeah… late birthday present, if it makes you feel better.”

He’d thought that Mickey had already given him his birthday present a couple weeks ago: one _hell_ of a blow-job with no reciprocation necessary (he reciprocated anyway, but the gesture was pretty fucking nice).

“Thanks,” Ian murmured.

Mickey pulls on the cigarette before passing it back to Ian, “Yeah, whatever,” he says, but there’s a little grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Ian smirks, leaning over to brush his lips against Mickey’s. The brunette might have let out an irritated sigh, but he kissed him back, giving Ian one of those rare soft and slow kisses. Mickey tasted like cigarettes and warmth; despite that, he tastes fucking amazing. Ian drops the cigarette and settles up against Mickey, holding his face while Mickey hooks an arm around his waist, scraping his teeth against Ian’s bottom lip. 

Mickey doesn’t bite Ian, not really. And it’s not like anything would happen if he did, the conditions have to be specific —on a full moon, while all wolfed out _blah blah blah_. But still, Mickey doesn't. Ian wishes he would sometimes. But Mickey keeps his teeth soft against his skin, scraping and grazing over Ian’s lips, over the pulse in his neck —like if he wanted to, he could rip out his jugular in an instant. 

They could destroy each other if they wanted. Mickey could leave Ian as a pile of blood and flesh, if he felt so inclined. Ian could leave Mickey broken, scramble up his mind, leave him a shell of a person. But they don’t. And the reason for that all came down to the butterfly knife. 

Because the knife might as well have been a fucking letterman jacket or a promise ring or a brand. Both of them know this, but they don’t say it out loud. They can’t.

 

* * *

 

The butterfly knife was open and hovering above Ian’s face as he laid in bed; he made it turn and float closer and further to his face while he thought. There were scratches and scuffs along the handle, a little rust near the base of the blade —could’ve been blood, Ian wasn’t really sure. At the very top of the handle, a single M was crudely etched, looking as if it had been done with a razor or a nail.

Over two weeks and he still hadn’t heard from Mickey. He was getting worried. Word around Canaryville was that Terry Milkovich was knocking down doors, looking for Mickey and Mandy, out for blood because they robbed him. It was only a matter of time before he would start looking outside of Chicago. _Everyone_ , including Ian’s family, was talking about it. He couldn't get away from it even if he wanted to.

Mickey said he would let him know wherever he ended up. And while Ian had the ability to find Mickey on his own, he really wanted Mickey to do what he said. Maybe he was being stubborn. Or dumb. Whatever. Ian guessed that maybe he misread Mickey’s feelings towards him. Because if Mickey wanted him to know where he was, he would have fucking called, right? Everything was just so incredibly frustrating and messed up.

He didn’t like that he was laying there worried about Mickey. He didn’t like that it was hard to concentrate on much else besides the Werewolf. These were the things that could get in in trouble —or worse, killed, God forbid Terry fucking found out. He just felt like he was lost at sea, things spinning out of control around him, while all he really needed was his anchor.

“Jesus, Ian,” the knife was ripped from Ian’s invisible hold as Fiona’s voice cut into the silence of his room. “You’re gonna end up poking your damn eye out or something.”

Ian sighed and rolled his eyes. He watched Fiona put the knife on top of his dresser before he turned in his little bed, facing the wall, away from his sister. 

“What’s going on with you?” Fiona asked, sitting on the edge of his bed. He felt one of her hands rub up and down his arm, trying to soothe him. “You’ve been all mopey lately, you feeling okay?”

Ian, frustrated and done with basically everything in the entire world, sat up and leaned back against his headboard, looking at his sister. “I don’t want you to freak out.”

Fiona nodded, “Okay, no promises.”

“I’m serious, Fi,” Ian sighed, “It’s… serious.”

“You in trouble?”

“No,” Ian replied. “But I’m worried about someone else. Someone important to me.”

Fiona frowned, giving Ian her complete attention, even though Debbie and Carl were yelling at each other downstairs.

Ian felt his whole body grow warm, his hands trembling a little because he was so anxious. Yeah, he’d told Mickey that his family wouldn't care, but the truth was he really didn't know if that was true or not. 

“I’ve been hanging out with this guy for… a while,” Ian said carefully. “But, he had to leave town, and I haven’t heard from him in like two weeks.”

A frown settled on Fiona’s face, “Have you tried calling him?”

“Phone disconnected about a week ago.”

Fiona reached over and pushed that one lock of hair out of his face that refused to stay put, “I’m sorry. You really liked him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighed.

“How come you never brought him around?” Fiona asked after a moment.

Ian shrugged, “Couldn’t.”

Fiona got that look on her face like she was trying to hold back something, “Was he—”

“He wasn’t too old, Fi,” Ian mumbled. “He wasn’t old or mean or anything like that. I just couldn’t bring him around, okay?”

She nodded, corners of her mouth pulling down, “Two weeks, huh?”

Ian nodded back at her.

Then Fiona’s face went form sympathetic to confused realization, putting bits and pieces together. It was a slow, subtle transition as she sat next to him, bringing her hand back to rest in her lap, “Wait, you’re not talking about Mickey Milkovich, are you?” 

Ian held his breath, stomach plummeting, keeping his eyes locked on his sister’s. “Yes,” he finally said, his voice wavering a little when he did.

Both of them said nothing for a long time, just kept staring at each other. Ian couldn’t tell if his sister was angry or freaked out or what she was feeling, but the longer the silence stretched out, the more he was getting the urge to bolt. 

“Fiona!” Debbie yelled from downstairs.

Fiona’s eyes flicked towards Ian’s bedroom door for a second, but she didn't move.

It was pretty safe to say that Ian didn’t exactly have the greatest track-record when it came to guys. Either they were too old, or took advantage of him, or were married —or all of the above. Mickey was different though, it was real with him. And Mickey actually gave a shit about him, _genuinely_ cared about him.

Logically, Ian knew that his sister didn’t know these things about Mickey. Logically, he knew what it looked like on the surface: Ian fucking around with _yet another_ guy who was wrong for him in every conceivable way. Logic didn’t stop the sting from the way she looked at him, though, like he had completely lost his damn mind.

“Uhm,” Fiona finally said, her voice low. “That is… _not_ okay, Ian.”

“Because of what he is?” Ian asked, voice flat.

“Yes,” Fiona replied honestly. “Yes, because of what he is… I mean, come on. Ian, he could _kill_ you. And you were _sleeping_ with him? He’s a _Werewolf_ , what were you thinking?”

“He _wouldn’t_ kill me,” Ian narrowed his eyes at her. “He cares about me, and I care about him. I trust him.”

“FIONA!” Debbie yelled again.

“Hold on!” Fiona yelled back, raising from Ian’s bed. She looked back at Ian, hands resting on her hips, “Ian, you can’t trust Werewolves to do what you _think_ they’re going to do… and they don’t care about people like us, not like that,” Fiona sighed. “They’re unpredictable, and from what I’ve seen, Mickey’s… you know that he’s probably Rabid, right?”

“He’s _not_ Rabid,” Ian said. “And since when do Gallagher’s give a shit about the rules?”

“Since you’ve been fucking a Werewolf!” Fiona’s eyes went wide as she threw her hands out to the side. “It’s not right! It’s not okay!”

Ian felt his whole body go cold, “You know what, forget it. Should have known not to talk about this with you. Mickey was right.”

“Carl wont put me down! FI-ONA!” Debbie’s voice filtered from downstairs again.

“Ian, just wait here for a sec, okay?” Fiona ran a hand through her hair, turning to leave.

Fuck that. Ian put together a plan in about five seconds. It was reckless and stupid, but this was one of those times where he needed Mickey. But Mickey wasn’t fucking here. So Ian was going to do this shit on his own. 

Screw all that toxic-codependent-relationship nonsense, Ian _needed_ Mickey in his fucking life, especially now. He wasn’t ready to let go. He wasn’t fucking ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Fuck all that. Fuck what Fiona thought. Fuck what everyone thought. Ian was pretty sure he loved Mickey, and he was pretty sure that Mickey loved him too. So fuck everyone else.

Ian grabbed a backpack and opened a dresser drawer, the one where he kept all his supplies. Handfuls of candles, jars of animal bones, packets of herbs and crystals and chalk —basically, Ian scooped everything in the drawer into his backpack. He knew what he needed, he just couldn’t sort through all of that shit right now. He made sure to grab Mickey's butterfly knife, and the envelope that was shoved to the back of the drawer, folding it carefully and sticking both items in his back pocket.

In the living room, Fiona was in the process of getting Debbie down from being suspended near the ceiling. Ian didn’t really pay attention, but his little sister was spitting horrible words at Carl, and Carl was just laughing hysterically. Fiona called out to Ian as he left, trying to get him to stay, but he ignored her, slamming the front door on his way out.

It was fucking _stupid_ to think that he could have talked to Fiona about Mickey. She didn’t get it, wouldn't get it. Nevermind the fact that _she_ had terrible taste in partners. Nevermind the fact that Mickey actually made Ian happy. Nevermind any of that shit, right? Because Mickey was a Werewolf and Ian was a Witch and that was just _not okay_.

He popped a cigarette between his lips and lit up, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he walked. It was one of those relaxing balmy nights, the wind just barely picking up, unsettling Ian’s hair just enough to where he had to smooth it back with his hand. 

But Ian couldn’t relax. He felt tense and irritated… normally, this would be the point where he’d call Mickey to see if he could get together. But that wasn’t an _option_ right now, was it? So Ian was left with himself. Left with his irritation and tension radiating through his back and shoulders. 

He was on a mission, getting to the maze of abandoned buildings without even having to look up to see where he was going. Ian lit up another cigarette, having already finished his first a few minutes ago. He should probably stop smoking. Whatever.

He made his way up to his and Mickey’s usual meeting spot, littered with beer bottles and empty spray paint cans and crumpled up newspapers. Ian took a long drag from his cigarette and threw it to the floor, stomping it out. He set his backpack on the floor and knelt down by it, opening it up with a frustrated grunt.

 

* * *

 

** Four Months Ago **

 

Ian pressed against Mickey’s back, hooking his chin over the brunette’s shoulder, his arms coming to close around him. Mickey tensed up for a moment before relaxing in Ian’s hold. With careful hands, Ian deftly unbuckled Mickey’s belt in the dark of the abandoned building, popping open the button and unzipping the fly of his jeans.

When Mickey turned his head, Ian turned his too, their lips brushing against each other. Ian’s hands stilled their work as he kissed Mickey. It was an odd angle, a little awkward, but it was still good. Mickey sighed into Ian’s mouth and Ian breathed him in, tasting his tongue —small hints of cinnamon under that _just Mickey_ taste.

He didn’t mean to reach out and touch Mickey’s thoughts, but he did. They weren’t clear thoughts, but more like flavors and impressions. Mickey feeling safe with Ian, being able to just breathe and be who he was. Mickey loving the way Ian’s body felt pressed against his back, the way Ian kissed him. These things kind of made Ian care for Mickey even more. Sometimes Ian thought that maybe he loved him.

Then Mickey pulled away, their lips parted and just barely ghosting against each other. Ian tasted that Mickey was getting caught up in the moment, trying to talk himself down from emotions he told himself he wasn’t allowed to have, hating himself for feeling the way he did about Ian. Mickey cared about him, wanted more of him but couldn't have it.

So Ian pressed another soft kiss to Mickey’s mouth. Mickey kissed him back before turning his head away. It was quiet and tense for a moment. Ian, desperate to ease the tension, pressed his lips to Mickey’s neck as his hands resumed their work.

“I think I can get you to let go,” Ian murmured, mouthing at Mickey. He tasted the skin there and inhaled the Werewolf’s scent, pressing his hips forward again, aching for that friction. His hand slipped into Mickey’s boxers; Ian pressed his mouth to the crook of Mickey’s neck, nipping at him, he hummed appreciatively at finding him quickly hardening.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Ian continued, dragging his teeth against Mickey’s flesh, softening his words with things that drove the brunette crazy. “And I think I can do it. Wanna help you, so you can get out of that cage. I know you wanna run, Mick.”

Mickey’s head lolled back onto Ian’s shoulder, a soft exhale leaving him, “Not talking about this,” he shuddered.

Ian bit at Mickey, his hand working until he was completely hardened under his grip, “I think I could, though.”

“And how would that work?” Mickey panted, pausing to let out a low moan. “You come to my fucking house on a full moon?”

Ian drew his brows together in thought. Well, he hadn’t exactly worked out the logistics of it, but Mickey brought up a good point. It wasn’t like Ian could stroll into the Milkovich house, on the night of a full moon, and just be like _sup, I’m here to help Mickey out with letting go, is the basement this way?_ That was a sure-fire-way to get his ass killed.

Before Ian could open his mouth, Mickey yanked at his arm, pulling his hand out of his boxers as he turned, moving quickly, pushing Ian against the wall. Mickey looked up at him, breathing hard, his eyes flared that amber color for an instant while his hands worked Ian’s jeans open.

“Just top talking about that shit, okay?” Mickey grunted, tugging Ian’s jeans down his hips, “Not your problem.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Gallagher,” Mickey cut him off, massaging the front of Ian’s boxers, hardening him up further. God, it was hard to concentrate when he did that, “You want me to get on this, or not? Because if not, I’m just gonna fucking leave your ass here and go home.”

Ian gritted his teeth, giving his Werewolf a slow smile before pushing him down to his knees, “Alright, tough guy.”

 

* * *

 

Ian was automatic in his movements, taking his chalk and drawing out the geometric design he needed onto the floor of the building. He wrote the ruins, laid out his candles, put the bronze bowl in the center of his workspace with a determined sigh.

His body was revving up for this, forehead beading up with sweat, breath coming out short; he felt the hum and tingle spread out over his back, creeping around to his chest and up his throat. He dumped what he needed into the bronze bowl —the dried herbs, the bones, the contents of the envelope that he had in his back pocket.

Before Mickey left, in the Kash and Grab, when Ian roughly fisted his hands into his hair, when he kissed him desperately, he took something from Mickey. There were only five strands of hair, barely enough to find him with, but they’d have to do. They _had_ to work. Ian carefully dumped out the strands of hair into the bowl as well before he took the butterfly knife from his pocket, laid it against his palm and then sliced into his skin.

“Ow — _shit_ ,” Ian hissed at the pain shooting through his hand. He held his hand over the bowl, letting a few drops of his blood spill over the contents. He hadn’t done that in a while and had forgotten how fucking painful that actually was. Fucking movies making people think that shit was easy. 

After he pressed a piece of cloth to his wounded palm, Ian hovered his shaking hands over his makeshift alter. By that time, sweat was rolling down his back and face, labored breath deep and straining. Every inch of his body hummed, stomach twisting up, a little ache just behind his eyes. So far so good.

“Okay,” Ian panted, fingers curling, feeling heat radiate from his palms. The candles flicked to life, their flames dancing wildly before coming to a very abrupt still.

The pain behind his eyes spread to the top of his head. Ian hovered one hand above the filled bowl and concentrated the heat there until it caught flame as well, the contents burning up instantly, heavy bluish-gray smoke billowing up towards the ceiling.

Ian closed his eyes and concentrated all of his attention on Mickey. Every part of him, his face, the dimples of his smile, the way the world just shut up and settled when he was pressed close and breathing against Ian’s mouth. He concentrated on their last moments together, on how he felt about Mickey, on how desperately he wanted to find him. That was the most important, Ian focusing on how much he wanted to find Mickey, how much he needed him.

“Come on,” Ian gritted out through his teeth. He swallowed large gulps of air, pushing his mind harder. He kept repeating Mickey’s name over and over in his mind, kept thinking of his face and that need for his anchor.

Feeling something wet on his top lip, Ian swiped it away, glancing down at his hand. His nose was bleeding. Shit, not the best thing ever, but he pushed through it anyway.

Ian closed his eyes tightly until he saw flashes of Mickey, broken and static. It was from the past, from two weeks ago, if Ian could guess. It played like a movie being fast forward. Mickey packing his things, Mandy talking to him, them leaving the Milkovich house together, each with a duffle bag. The bus station window, handing cash over. The bus—

A sharp pain shot through Ian’s head. He gritted his teeth and pushed through it, ignoring the feeling of more blood leaking from his nose, dripping over his lips and down his chin. His hands shook and went numb. _Mickey Mickey Mickey_ was all he thought, _show me Mickey, show me where he is_.

It was a long bus ride, then Mickey and Mandy got off that bus, only to hop onto another. After that, they were in a little town. They didn’t stay in that town for too long, only what seemed like a couple days, mostly spent in a hotel room. 

They moved to _another_ town, a little away away from the first —Ian saw the sign that they passed: Stonefox, Ohio. Another cheap hotel. Mandy left and came back one of the days. She cried a lot. Mickey didn't know how to make her feel better. But then she was okay, or seemed to be. Mandy was good at hiding that shit.

Ian took a deep breath and pushed further, the numbness creeping up his arms and into his shoulders, pain in his head pulsating with every heavy breath he took. He had enough information, but he just wanted to push a _little_ more.

Finally, he saw Mickey, in current time. Sitting at a counter of some kind of convenient store, looking down at his clenched fists. He looked kind of lost, Ian could taste that numbness, could taste that yearning for the ideal situation —not being on the run, not being in fear, not scraping by for the rest of his life —for Ian.

“Mick,” Ian gasped, feeling blood drip over his mouth, down his chin, static was filling his ears and all of a sudden it was impossible to breathe. “Mick,” he mouthed.

Mickey looked up, deep frown settled heavy on his face.

Then everything went black.

 

* * *

 

Early morning sunlight hitting him in the face, and the sound of a vibrating phone clattering on concrete were the things that woke Ian up. Head feeling like it was stuck in a vice, and the skin on his face tight from dried blood, Ian slowly grabbed at his phone, fumbling as he brought it to his face to look at the screen. Fiona was calling him. He dropped the phone back onto the floor and groaned, moving to lay on his back.

His whole body pulsed with pain, worse than any hangover he’d ever had. He pushed too far, knew he’d been pushing too far. It was stupid. But at least he got his answers. Doing that kind of locating spell with that little amount of hair had been risky in itself.

For a while, he just laid on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the background South Side noises and his phone vibrating again. He didn’t want to talk to Fiona, or anyone else really. 

Finally, after a few more minutes, Ian slowly got up off of the floor, his bones feeling fragile. He needed to sleep. He cleaned up his supplies, wiping away the chalk markings and slung his backpack over his shoulder, making his way out of the building.

Ian looked down at his phone and saw that there was a few text messages from a number he didn't recognize. Stomach fluttering, hope swelling in his chest (and hope that he wasn’t giving his hopes up) made Ian stop walking and open the messages.

_Message one: It’s Mandy. Don’t text this number back. If you call, make sure it’s during the day. I know about you and Mickey._

_Message two: I’m worried about him. I’m sorry. I know it’s asking a lot, and it’s dangerous, but I think he needs you. He needs to feel safe. He feels safe with you._

_Message three: I miss you, too. I miss my best friend._

Ian swallowed hard, stomach plummeting, but he couldn't stop the little grin from cracking on his face at the weird karmic poetry of it all. He saved the number in his phone and started walking back home. The decision was already made, but that finalized it.

 

* * *

 

When he got back home, his body was still aching all over. He could barely move his head without it feeling like his brain was about to bust of out his skull. 

Just as he was about to climb up the stairs, movement in the kitchen caught his eye, and immediately Ian frowned. Fiona was sitting at the kitchen table. With Lip. Ian already knew what was about to happen, some kind of fucked up intervention about the guys Ian chose to fuck with. So he dropped his backpack in front of the stairs and walked to the kitchen, sitting heavily at the table.

“Don’t tell me you were trying to find that fucking flea-bag,” Lip said around his cigarette.

Ian dipped his head and got up from the kitchen table, not wanting to deal with this shit.

“Lip, easy,” Fiona reached over and swatted at his arm. “Ian, come on, sit down.”

“No,” Ian shrugged, shaking his head. “Not gonna sit there while you two fucking go off on me about this. It’s none of your business, I shouldn’t have talked to you about it. So, that's my bad. Won’t happen again, trust me.”

“So, what… you’re gonna keep being some Werewolf’s bitch?” Lip scoffed. “You know that’s how it works, right? Every time he fucks you, it means you’re his bitch.”

Ian didn’t think, just threw out his hand, using what little strength he had to propel his brother back against the kitchen wall with a loud thud. “You don’t know _shit_ , Lip!”

“Ian!” Fiona gasped, scrambling to the other side of the table.

Lip easily broke from Ian’s hold, snarling as he took his turn to throw out one of his hands, hitting Ian square in the chest with a force that blew him backwards against the back stairs. Ian landed heavily, the edge of the steps biting into his side.

“Oh fuck —Lip, stop! Both of you, stop!” 

Both brothers glared heavily at each other, Ian breathing hard. His body was so fucking depleted right now and so he couldn't fight back properly. 

Lip would never understand. Fiona would never understand. And on one hand, how could Ian fault them for that, it’s just how their world worked. But there was always that sliver of hope that his family would be different, that they’d be able to see past what Mickey was.

Yeah. What a big fucking assumption he’d made. What a big fucking mistake.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Lip bit out at Ian.

“Nothing,” Ian spat back at his brother, “Like you have _any_ fucking room to talk shit about the people _I_ care about. Karen shit all over you and you begged for more —so, the fuck’s wrong with _you,_ huh? At least Mickey actually gave a shit about me!”

“Are you out of your mind? No, he doesn't!” Lip yelled, his words drawn out, like Ian was a fucking moron. “He’s a Werewolf! Move on!”

“I can’t move on —I love him!” Ian yelled back, mind completely blank at that point, it was more of a reflex.

Everyone in the kitchen froze, Ian’s older siblings staring at him. Ian sighed, his whole body going tense, belly twisting with nerves. Yeah. He loved Mickey. Not a big surprise, but saying that shit out loud… having that cemented like that. Fuck.

No one said anything for a little bit before Fiona cleared her throat, “Ian… I know you might think you love him—”

“Save it, Fi,” Lip huffed, shaking his head. He trained his eyes back onto Ian while he lit up another cigarette and sat back down at the table. “He’s clearly out of his fucking mind. Wow, you really are his bitch, huh?”

All Ian felt was heat rip up his spine and all he saw was red. He ignored his sister calling his name as he stomped up their stairs and went straight for his bedroom. It only took a few minutes to pack his shit up. Shoving clothes into his ROTC duffle bag, digging the wad of spare cash he kept out from behind his bed. He had just barely over a grand, had been saving up for a while now for a car. 

Ian was done. He was out. Fuck this.

“Ian?” a rough, sleepy voice cut through the silence.

Stomach dropping, Ian whipped around to look up at Carl on the top bunk, looking down at him, rubbing at his eyes.

“What’re you doing?” Carl yawned, eyes blinking awake.

“Uhm,” Ian replied, dumbly. 

He had a full duffle bag in one hand, cash in the other, and his vision went a little blurry at the edges from angry and sad tears. And here was his little brother Carl, not so little anymore, but still. Carl, sleepy and confused, looking at him from the top bunk, visibly struggling to keep his mouth closed up tight. His brows were drawn sharply together as he sat up a little straighter in bed.

“Go back to bed, Carl,” Ian finally mumbled, shoving the cash into his pocket.

“You coming back?”

Ian hesitated in the doorway, looking up at Carl. He had to do this. He had to go to Mickey and help him. Had to be with him. Leaving his family was… Ian didn’t want to think about that. About what he was doing, how he was hurting his siblings in doing this. He loved his family. He loved Mickey. Ian didn't want to choose, but Mickey needed him now. Was he coming back? Would he ever? Yeah, one day. Someday.

But Ian didn't answer Carl, pushing down that stinging in his chest as his little brother kept watching him. He walked down the stairs, ignoring Lip’s glare when he reached the kitchen.

“Ian, wait,” Fiona gasped, blocking his way. She put her hands on his shoulders, eyes filled with tears, “You love him. Okay…okay. That’s… that’s… it just scares the hell out of me —out of us— because of what he is. But… fine, it’s fine. I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t leave, don’t do this.”

His eyes stung, looking at Fiona looking at him that way. Ian wiped harshly at his eyes before any tears could fall, “He needs my help.”

By now tears were rolling down Fiona’s face as she put her hands on either side of Ian’s face. It reminded him of when he was really small and she would hold him like that and call him sweet face. His eyes stung more; he tried to blink away the tears. He didn't want to make his sister cry. He _hated_ seeing her cry.

“I’m sorry, Fi,” he mumbled. 

Her hands dropped from his face; she ran them through her hair and breathed deep, shoulders lifting and falling heavily. The reality was that Ian was an adult, able to come and go as he pleased without anyone’s permission. He knew it stung for Fiona, could feel the waves of helplessness rolling off of her in thick, heavy pulses.

Behind him, Ian heard Lip heave a rough disgusted laugh, “Fuck this,” heard the chair he’d been sitting in scrape across the floor and heard the back door open and slam shut.

“Does he, uh…” Fiona sighed, looking around the kitchen, “Does he love you?”

“Pretty sure,” Ian said quietly, eyesight stuck on the kitchen floor. “We don’t, you know, talk about that stuff. But I know what he felt with me.”

Fiona sighed again, heavy and drawn out. Ian looked up at her. She nodded a couple times to herself, again looking around the kitchen, obviously making some kind of mental decisions or list. She did that a lot when she was flustered.

Then Fiona was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, moving pots and pans around. Ian watched her carefully, trying to figure out what she was doing. With wet eyes and a trembling bottom lip, Fiona padded back over to him, holding out a handful of cash from the squirrel fund.

Ian shook his head. Absolutely not, “No… I’m okay, I have money.”

But his sister grabbed his hand and pushed the money into his grip, closing his fingers around it, “It’s only a couple hun-hundred bucks,” her breath caught in her throat as she held back tears. “I want you t-to call me all the time. You understand me? All the time. I… I need you to call me, s-so I can hear your voice and know you’re okay—”

Ian wrapped his arms around his big sister, pressing his cheek to the side of her head. Her hold on him was like a vice; he felt her hands bunch into the back of his shirt.

“Promise me,” Fiona said, her voice muffled. 

“I promise,” Ian sniffed, reaching a hand up to wipe at his eyes.

Fiona let him go, leaned back and wiped his face with her warm hands, forcing herself to smile; she took a deep breath and smoothed out the front of his jacket, “I love you, little brother. We all love you so much.”

“Love you too,” Ian nodded.

“Be careful,” she said. “I know you love him, but if something happens —if he turns on you, Ian—”

“I know,” Ian cut her off, knowing full well that if something happened, if Mickey turned on him during a full moon… well, he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to follow through with what he was _supposed_ to do. But Fiona needed to hear it, so he gave her that.

 

* * *

 

The bus ride was so incredibly long. Ian tried to sleep through most of it, but he couldn’t.

He had about an hour to spare between switching buses at the halfway mark. 

He called Mandy.

“I’m coming,” he told her.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

He told her not to apologize. He was glad she called him. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s just… being a dick, which is normal Mickey, but… I know he misses you,” Mandy told him. “And I don’t know what we’re going to do during the full moon. But I just _know_ if he’s going to let go for anyone, it’s going to be you.”

“There’s a chance he might not,” Ian said, even though he was pretty sure she was right. No reason to give false hope, right?

“You didn’t hear his heart when he talked about you,” Mandy said. “He can lie about a lot of shit, Ian but he can’t lie about that.”

 

* * *

 

It was late when Ian finally got into Stonefox. The town was small, kinda rundown. There were cracked sidewalks and dumpy houses, but there was a little charm that you couldn't quite put your finger on, it was just there. 

Mandy texted the address to him. Luckily Mickey would not be there; Ian was nervous about dropping in on Mickey, didn’t really think he’d have a great reaction. Truth be told, the closer Ian got to Mickey and Mandy’s apartment, the more and more he was rethinking this whole thing. What if Lip was right? What if Mickey didn’t really care about him? What if Ian was about to make a huge ass out of himself? Fuck.

Mickey and Mandy’s apartment was right above a little coffee shop —a set of stairs off to the side lead up to a door. Almost immediately after Ian knocked, the door swung open.

“Oh god!” Mandy’s blue eyes were filled to the brim with tears. She launched herself at him, nearly tackling him down the stairs in a fierce hug.

He couldn't stop his eyes from stinging as he hugged her back just as fiercely. Ian pressed his face into Mandy’s hair, wrapping his long arms around her, listening to her half-cry and half-laugh.

“Hey Mandy,” Ian murmured into her dark hair.

It was just overwhelming and emotional —Ian understood that. He and Mandy had been _so_ incredibly close before. It’s hard to live in the same neighborhood with someone when you’re not “allowed” to be their best friend anymore. The risk of being friends in secret is too high. So Ian would see Mandy around, they’d look at each other, share a little sad nod, and move on. It was torture.

She lead him into the apartment. Empty, except for a few basics. Ian wasn’t expecting anything different, honestly. Not like the Milkovich kids could shell out money _just because_ and buy furniture. But the apartment was nice enough. It was clean.

They settled down in Mandy’s room, sitting on the mattress pushed into a corner of the room. She was still living out of her duffle bag and backpack, not having hangers for the small closet to hang up her clothes. 

“What’s going on back home?” Mandy asked him.

“Everyone was talking about you guys, but it died down,” Ian said. “Pretty sure your dad’s still looking for you though.”

Mandy nodded, “He’s not gonna stop. We can’t stay here for more than a month or two. But luckily the landlord is letting us live here kind of under the table.”

“No trail,” Ian nodded. Smart. Mickey and Mandy were always smart like that though. “You been okay?”

Mandy’s face went hard before she crumbled. Ian panicked for a second, because Mandy didn't crumble like that, she didn't fall apart. She was a fighter; she got angry, she got even but she didn’t crumble. He scooted closer to her and wrapped his arms around her, letting her lean into him as she cried.

What Mandy told him, through broken words and long pauses, Ian couldn’t really wrap his head around. It was immediate anger, hearing about what Terry did. And then what came out of that. The pregnancy; the abortion. She’d been holding onto it for way too long, had been violated and silenced by fear for _years_. Ian wanted to throw up. Wanted to go straight back to South Side and kill that motherfucker.

“God Mandy,” Ian pressed his cheek to the top of her head, “I’m so sorry.”

He didn't know what else to say. Saying sorry for what happened to her seemed like such a cop-out move —like putting a bandaid on a severed limb in hopes to make it better— but he was lost. She seemed like she’d been waiting to fall apart for a long time, so Ian stayed quiet and tried to comfort her as much as he could while she did. She didn't talk about it anymore, just cried. 

Eventually, after some time, Mandy started to calm. She took a deep breath and wiped at her eyes, smearing her makeup even more, but she was still beautiful. She always was.

“I’m sorry,” she gave an embarrassed, humorless laugh.

Ian shook his head, “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

They sat in silence for a little bit, passing a cigarette between them. There was a shift in Mandy; she’d been wound up so tightly before, but had relaxed a little now. Ian knew she wasn’t okay, wouldn't be okay for a long time probably, but he could also tell —could feel— her relief that he was there. 

She told him about her working at a diner. Mickey was working at a convenient store (which Ian already knew). He could only get the graveyard shift though, so his sleeping schedule was all messed up. Mandy said the people in Stonefox were nice enough, if a little closed off, kind of religious. She didn't love it there, in that town, but she liked it well enough. She missed South Side (something she never thought she’d say or feel; it made her laugh though).

“How did you and Mickey get together, anyway?” Mandy asked Ian.

Ian rolled his eyes and grinned, “I thought he went after Carl.”

“Probably Iggy,” Mandy said. “He likes to chase.”

Ian sighed, “Well… I tracked Mickey down to those abandon buildings because I thought for sure it was him.”

Mandy’s eyes went wide as she breathed a laugh, “What were you gonna do, fight him?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “But it wasn’t him, so…” 

“So instead you guys just fucked,” Mandy pulled on her cigarette and snorted a laugh, her eyes glittering at him, teasing him. “I mean, _totally_ makes sense. That’s what happens when I go to try to kick someone’s ass.”

Ian reached over and pinched her arm, “Jerk.”

Mandy smiled, giving him a little shrug. “I’ve known for a while,” She said. “Mickey didn't know that I knew though.”

“How’d you know?”

Mandy gave him a flat look before her smile came back, “He smelled like you when he’d come home sometimes. And he smelled like sex. So, you know… put two and two together.”

Ian felt his face heat up, “Oh.”

“Do you love him?”

Ian nodded, not having to think about it, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

He honestly hadn't meant to fall asleep while he waited for Mickey to get home from work. Ian had been sitting in Mickey’s room, smoking, just waiting around for a while. There was only so much he could do, Mandy went to bed, having to get up early in the morning for work. So Ian ended up stretching out, planning on just resting his eyes for a few minutes to try to calm his nerves. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

But he did. And when he woke up, it was morning. His back was aching, his legs tangled up in the scratchy sheets, clothes rumpled. Ian looked around he small empty bedroom, stomach dropping, seeing that the bedroom door was propped open. He’d closed it the night before.

Ian’s body protested as he rose to his feet. There was an immediate sense of regret, and a paranoid sting puncturing every inch of his body. This was a mistake. This was a huge mistake. Mickey was going to be pissed and kick him out.

Slowly, Ian made his way out of Mickey’s room. His breath caught in his throat, seeing the Werewolf sitting at the card table, facing his bedroom door with an unreadable look on his face. Neither one of them said anything. Mickey had a cigarette between his fingers, his mouth working in concentration, gnawing this bottom lip, eyebrows barely lifted. Ian wondered if he slept at all.

“Hey,” Ian said, his voice coming out strained.

Mickey didn’t say anything. Ian almost wished he would start yelling or throwing punches… anything at this point, anything but silence. He was tempted to reach out to Mickey’s mind, but it hardly seemed appropriate.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Ian folded his arms across his chest. 

Still, Mickey kept silent.

“I would have called, but you don’t have your number anymore—”

“How’d you find me, Ian?” Mickey cut him off. “Mandy said that you were halfway here when you called her, so how the fuck did you know where you were going?”

Shit. Ian took a deep breath, took a step towards Mickey, “I… did a spell.”

Mickey’s mouth twisted as he ground out his cigarette and nodded, “I don’t know very fucking much about that Witch shit, but I know enough.”

“I’m not sorry,” Ian shot back. 

“Should be,” Mickey snarled. “Using whatever the fuck you used —whatever the fuck you took from me. Should be fucking sorry.”

“You promised you’d call, and you didn’t," Ian defended. "You probably weren’t going to either, were you?”

“So that makes it all okay? That makes it okay that you took something from me without asking me. Fucking _justified_ right?” Mickey sighed, getting up from him chair to walk into the kitchen, “For the record, I was gonna call, so you can stop being so fucking dramatic.”

Heat flushed down Ian’s back as he clenched his jaw tight. He reached out to Mickey’s mind, touching and feeling around until he got what he was looking for. The Werewolf had missed him, tried to call several times, but couldn't follow through. He felt guilt and Ian knew that him being in Mickey’s apartment had the Werewolf relaxing more than he had been lately. 

Ian could taste that all Mickey wanted to do right then and there was kiss him. He could taste how grateful Mickey was that Ian was there, not wanting to be grateful, but feeling some sense of normalcy, some sense of safeness to be himself —which was so important to Mickey. 

He followed brunette into the kitchen; Mickey was opening a beer bottle, barely giving Ian a second glance, trying to be annoyed with Ian for showing up out of the blue.

Grabbing Mickey’s hips and pressing him against the counter, Ian furrowed his brows at the shorter boy, “I’m sorry. I just took some of your hair, okay. I was worried and I freaked out when you left, so I just… didn’t think. Not sorry I found you though.”

Mickey huffed a sigh, taking a swig from his beer. He wasn’t looking at Ian, “Don’t do that shit again. You want something from me, you fucking ask.”

“Okay,” he nodded.

Finally Mickey looked at Ian, eyes flittering across his shoulders and chest. Ian pressed his fingertips into Mickey’s hips but kept some space between them, trying to gauge what Mickey was going to do. But it had been two fucking weeks and Ian had been worried and angry and put himself through hell to figure out where Mickey was. Yeah it might have been little selfish, so the fuck what. He loved him.

“Just be with me. Please,” Ian whispered. “Just be with me. It’s just us right now.”

“You really do think it’s that simple, don’t you?” Mickey breathed, leaning into Ian.

“Right now it _is_ that simple,” Ian moved his lips to press against Mickey’s, kissing him softly until the brunette kissed him back, with a quiet sigh; he took Mickey’s beer from his hand and set it on the counter.

The kiss deepened, Mickey nipping and licking at Ian’s top lip, both of them working themselves into a desperate frenzy. Ian let Mickey walk him backwards towards his bedroom, both of them tugging at each other’s shirts, barely coming up for air while they kissed.

Ian couldn't stop touching Mickey. He ran his hands up and down the brunette’s back, his arms, his chest, finally for the first time being able to explore that bare, soft skin against his, being able to take a moment to fucking enjoy it.

They fell to the mattress in Mickey’s room. Ian under the brunette, looking up into blue eyes that were so focused, it was almost too much. Both of them breathing hard, they grabbed and tugged at each other’s pants, finishing undressing until they were in nothing but their boxers. Ian latched his lips onto Mickey’s again, taking the brunette by the waist and moving them until he was settled on top, between Mickey’s legs.

“Fuck, look at you,” Ian couldn't help it, looking down at Mickey. The guy just did it for him. Pale and dark hair and blue eyes and these barely-there freckles all over the place, he was fucking beautiful.

Mickey shifted uncomfortably under him, rolling his eyes, “Come on, man. Don’t start with that shit.”

Ian leaned down, pressing his front against Mickey’s, rocking his hips as he teased, keeping his tone light, “You like it. You like when I tell you how _pretty_ you are, because you _know_ how pretty you are.”

“Fuck you, you fucking dick,” Mickey laughed. His laugh slipped though, turning into a breathy noise when Ian rolled his hips, pushing himself harder against him. The brunette arched and hitched his legs up around Ian’s waist, brow creasing deeply as his mouth fell open.

 

* * *

 

** Three Months Ago **

 

“Ready?” Ian grinned, stepping up to the edge of the roof. He looked back at Mickey, wind whipping in both of their faces as he held his hand out for Mickey to take.

Mickey pulled a hesitant face, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before he heaved a sigh and took Ian’s hand, stepping up to the edge with him, “Why the fuck are we doing this shit, again?”

Ian slipped his fingers in the spaces between Mickey’s. He brought the brunette’s hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it before letting their hands fall back between them.

“Because you trust me,” he stated, closing his eyes, feeling the wind blow into his face. A thrill ran up his belly, knowing he was teetering on the edge of the six-story building, knowing that if he wasn’t careful, things could get very, very bad.

“Probably shouldn’t,” Mickey said beside him.

“Not gonna let anything happen to you,” Ian said, his voice quiet.

Mickey huffed a laugh beside him.

“I’m serious,” Ian opened his eyes, peering over at Mickey, but he was still looking out over the tops of the maze of abandoned buildings. "I won't. Ever."

“I know,” the Werewolf finally said, barely audible.

The setting sun lit up the sky behind him, and Ian decided that Mickey Milkovich was his and only his, just as much as he was Mickey’s. They never said these things, obviously, probably never would —never could. But that didn't make it any less true.

“You’re beautiful,” Ian told him.

Mickey whipped his head over to look at Ian, his eyes hard, “Will you fucking stop with that shit, _Jesus_.”

Ian laughed, because even though Mickey’s voice was annoyed, his cheeks were tinged pink. Because Mickey liked that shit. He’d never say it out loud, but he did. Because the little shit knew how he looked. North Side girls loved him because he was the cute bad boy their dad's warned them about, with his tattooed fingers, and sinner grin. Too bad for them, they could never have him. 

“Ready?” Ian asked again. His body went warm all over, feeling the energy spark —starting from his toes and climbing all the way up until his head went all floaty but calm.

Mickey tightened his grip on Ian’s hand, giving a single nod, “Don’t kill me.”

“Gonna take a lot more to kill you than falling off a building, Mickey,” Ian said.

“Don’t kill yourself then,” Mickey said, his voice low, eyes finally meeting Ian’s. “Okay?”

Ian nodded, “Okay.”

They turned around, backs facing the edge of the building, hands linking back together. Ian spread his arms out wide and Mickey did the same. Ian took a deep breath. Mickey took a deep breath. He could do this. 

“Ready?” It was Mickey who asked this time.

“On three,” Ian said, looking over at Mickey. A bubble of energy and adrenaline floated through Ian. But both of them laughed; Ian smiled at Mickey laughing —he had a great laugh. A great smile, one that Ian knew only really popped up around him.

“One…” Ian started. They both took a tiny step back. The wind kicked up again and it was hard to keep his balance, Ian windmilled his free arm to stay upright. He laughed again, mostly out of shock.

“You good?” Mickey asked.

Ian nodded, “Two…”

“Wait,” Mickey said all of a sudden, his face falling. 

“What’s wrong?”

“If you fuck this up and we end up looking like a fucking Tarantino movie down there—”

“I told you, I got this,” Ian frowned, shaking his head.

“Can you shut the fuck up for a second, please?” Mickey frowned. “Just… wanted to say thanks.”

Ian’s smile slowly slipped form his face. He squeezed Mickey’s hand and nodded. It was just one word, but it was loaded and Ian didn't need any further explanation. Mickey tore his eyes away from Ian and looked forward, taking another deep breath. 

Ian took a couple seconds to study Mickey’s profile, to memorize every angle and dip of his features. He really was beautiful. It was so dangerous, but Ian loved him, he was pretty sure.

 

* * *

 

Ian drops his head down, pressing his mouth into the crook of Mickey’s neck. Mickey is hot and tight around him; Ian concentrates on the sound of labored breathing, on the feel of short, dull nails scraping down his back before two hands grab at his ass, trying to pull him even further into that tight heat.

He wanted this for so long — _they_ wanted this for so long— to be able to _just_ focus on each other; for Ian to have Mickey’s full attention… he never wanted this to end.

“Fuck,” the brunette pants, so Ian goes to him, pressing his mouth against Mickey’s. He kisses him hard, rolling his hips, pushing deeply, hypnotized by the strangled noises coming from the back of Mickey’s throat.

They’re both sweaty, mouthing wherever they can; Mickey tastes good and smells good, and Ian can’t get enough of him. Ian bites at Mickey’s throat, at his collarbones, everywhere he wasn’t able to before. He wants to devour him, inch by inch, just completely take over everything he is. It’s so dark and fucked up, but Ian can’t get enough, can’t get close enough, feel enough.

Mickey hitches his legs up around Ian’s waist, wrapping around him tighter, moving with him until Ian hits a spot that makes the brunette emit one of those dark rolling belly-growls. Ian grabs at Mickey’s face with one hand, the other bracing against the mattress.

“Look at me,” Ian breathes, desperately needing that connection, to see those blue eyes.

When Mickey does look at him, his brows creased, mouth parted open, skin flushed… he’s fucking beautiful. Ian runs his thumb along Mickey’s cheekbone, fingertips brushing into his dark hair. His body is white hot and electric and melting at the same time. Mickey doesn't look away, not even for a second. Neither does Ian.

Mickey tightens around him and bites his lip; his eyes flash that amber color for a split second, that same rolling growl bubbling up, so low that Ian barely catches it. The brunette bites his lip so hard that Ian’s breath hitches in his throat, seeing a bead of blood form on his skin when he pulls his lip out from between his teeth to gasp. 

Ian, completely gone in the moment, holds deep and tight inside Mickey as he kisses and licks at his swollen lips, tasting that coppery tang and hearing that low growl get louder, Mickey’s chest vibrating against his own. 

Faster than Ian can really process, Mickey moves them, using his strength and speed to switch their positions. A overwhelming wave of electric and heat washes over Ian from the new position; he presses his head back into the mattress and grips Mickey’s hips tightly, eyes clenching shut.

“Keep ‘em open,” Mickey slurs out, sitting back until Ian is completely bottomed out.

They both punch out pained-sounding moans; Ian’s eyes fly open, seeing Mickey above him like that, tattooed hands bracing on Ian’s abdomen. It’s almost too much, but he does as he’s told, keeping his eyes open and fixed on Mickey.

It doesn’t mater to Ian that Mickey has obviously never been on top like this before. Maybe it’s just because it’s Mickey. Who knows, who fucking cares. But Ian feels the brunette’s tension, that frustration as he rocks his hips, trying to find a good rhythm. Just for a second, he does what he’s not really supposed to and touches Mickey’s mind. Embarrassed and frustrated all the while feeling so fucking full and good, he can barely focus on moving his hips, even though he’s trying. He’s trying so fucking hard.

“Here,” Ian says, keeping his voice quiet. He sits up; Mickey climbs off with nominal annoyed grunting, which makes Ian grin. He sits with his back against the wall and reaches for Mickey again until the brunette climbs back onto his lap.

“So fucking tight,” Ian murmurs as Mickey sinks back onto his cock. “God, you look so good like this. Feel so good.”

Mickey doesn't say anything back, but he doesn't really need to. Ian can read it all over his face without having to root around his head. He likes it. A lot.

Ian grabs Mickey’s hip with one hand, the other sliding back to rest on the small of his back. He inhales sharply, steeling himself while helping Mickey find his rhythm. Mickey always feels so good anyways, he could probably be the most uncoordinated fuck in the world and Ian would still be in fucking heaven.

But thankfully, Mickey is a fast learner. He wraps his arms tightly around Ian’s shoulders, grinding down hard onto him, mouth pressed to Ian’s ear. At first, he was a little stiff with his movements, but then something clicked and Ian has a hard time breathing.

“Yeah, like that,” Ian whispers, grabbing at Mickey's ass with both hands. “Just like that baby… _fuck_.”

“That good?” Mickey’s mouth presses against Ian’s neck as he moves a little faster.

Ian thinks he nods, but it’s hard to focus, “So fucking good.”

There’s a newfound confidence and playful filth that takes over Mickey —Ian’s just about instantly addicted, “You like that? You like me fucking you like this?”

“Fuck yeah,” Ian breathes out a labored laugh, fisting the back of Mickey’s hair to pull his head back so he can kiss him. Mickey’s hands move to bury into Ian’s hair as they kiss —all soft lips with firm pressure and brushings of tongues, it’s perfect.

It doesn't take much longer after that. Mickey is whining, pulling on Ian’s hair; Ian touches him everywhere, getting lost in the moment and unable to stop talking to Mickey, unable to keep his thoughts to himself about how fucking good Mickey feels, about how good he is. He doesn't press his hand to Mickey’s chest and breathe the words to heighten Mickey’s experience —doesn't need to, and isn’t asked for it. 

The brunette comes hard, open mouth pressed to Ian’s ear, growl in the back of his throat, hips stuttering as he jerks himself through his orgasm. Ian follows right after. It hits him hard as well, his teeth biting roughly at Mickey’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist, holding him still, holding him tight.

After they come down from that euphoric high, cleaned up and pulled on boxers… it’s weird, but in a good way. They’re just propped up against the wall, on Mickey’s mattress. Just hanging out in the silence of the apartment afterwards. They have time. They have all the time in the world, just them.

Ian brushed the back of his knuckles against Mickey’s thigh, feeling his soft skin and hair, looking at the ways their skin tones were just barely different. Both so pale, but Mickey’s skin was nearly white and glowing like the moon. Kind of fitting.

“So, what’s the plan?” Mickey asked, his voice tired and soft.

Ian looked over at him, not moving his hand away from Mickey’s thigh, but instead sliding his hand to rest completely on top, fingers curling around to the soft flesh of the inner thigh. He barely heard the soft intake of breath that Mickey made. He wanted to spend an entire week touching Mickey, exploring every inch of his skin, examining every scar and freckle he could find.

“Gonna help you let go,” Ian told him.

Mickey’s face stayed passive, “And then?”

“I could go back to South Side… I could stay… it’s up to you though.”

“What about your family?” Mickey arched a brow at him.

Ian swallowed hard, not wanting to think about them right now, much less talk about them. “Something I’m gonna have to deal with.”

Mickey shrugged, “Ain’t gonna stop you if you wanna go back home.”

“Does that mean you want me to stay?”

“Not about what I want.”

“Christ, Mickey,” Ian sighed, “Can you just, for fucking _once_ —do you want me to stay?”

Ian watched with careful eyes as Mickey leaned over, grabbed him by the back of the neck and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. He sighed into the kiss, letting himself be brought down to lay out on Mickey’s mattress. 

“Yeah,” was all that Mickey gave him. Ian took it. He swallowed it up and never wanted to let go of it.

Through the tangled limbs, the sounds of kissing, and pressing against each other, Ian let go of everything that they left in South Side and breathed, “Good, because I wanna be with you. Wanna stay.”

Mickey just nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

Ian felt this swell in his chest; he ran the backs of his fingers against Mickey’s cheek and just came out with it, unable to keep it inside anymore, “I love you.”

Mickey froze, pressing his forehead against Ian’s, their breath colliding between them. For what seemed like a decade, Ian wanted to take those words back. Not because he didn't mean them, because he did, but because Mickey was obviously not prepared to hear that.

It might have been the wrong time to say it. Mickey was on the run, stressed about everything _else_ going on in his life, he didn't need Ian declaring shit like this, making things even more complicated. So yeah, might have been the wrong time to say it. 

He expected anger from the Werewolf. He expected more _we can’t talk about that shit so shut up_. He expected everything else in the world except for Mickey to kiss him again. He kissed him hard, all consuming. Like a claim and a declaration all in one, something that Ian would only be able to decipher the truth of.

Mickey loved him too.

 

* * *

 

Another week passed; only _days_ until the full moon.

It only took a few days after he arrived for Ian to find a job. He’d always been pretty good at putting on the show, the likable smile, the people-friendly vibe. It wasn’t a front, but he was just good at it. So he was put on a register at this little grocery store. Standing all day, doing the same damn swiping motion over and over again the _beep beep beep_ , counting out change. Monotonous.

The pay was decent and he got small discounts on food, so that helped a lot. The only bad part of the whole thing was that him and Mickey were on opposite schedules, barely finding a few hours here and there to really spend time with each other.

But the grocery store was across the street from the diner that Mandy worked at, so Ian would run over there for his short lunch breaks and sit in her section, so that was nice. He missed her so damn much.

They talked a lot about the whole _what’s next_ —what to do, where to go, after they’ve used up all the time they were going to get in Stonefox. They figured it was best to keep to these small towns, keeping their head down, not get too attached to people or places. Which, Ian assumed, sucked the most for Mandy, because he could tell that she was kind of missing some kind of companionship that she _obviously_ couldn't get from Ian or her brother.

But Terry was still a threat and Ian was half worried that he’d end up seeking out a Witch to locate Mickey and Mandy. Mandy didn’t think her dad would do something like that, because of his vicious hatred towards Witches, but even still, no one wanted to take that possibility off the table. 

So they had to keep their heads down, regardless of what Terry might do. Werewolves were connected, they talked, kepis eyes out for each other. So, with that in mind, they really didn't have much of a choice but to keep everyone they met at arms length.

Mandy was visibly feeling better about herself though, her shoulders straightening up a little more, her smile finally reaching her eyes. She bought this shitty TV from a pawnshop and her and Ian would watch the static-filled, snowy infomercials while they curled up in her room, just hanging out while Mickey went off to work. Ian had forgotten how much he hated basic cable, but it was _something_.

He made sure he called Fiona, “I’m okay,” he told her. He asked her if she needed him to send money, even though he knew it would be cutting it too close to do so; he was paid decently, but not decently enough to send any money that would really matter.

“We’re okay,” Fiona told him. “Keep your money, okay? Just call me and if you ever need anything, you know I’m here.”

“I know,” Ian said, feeling his eyes sting; he already missed her. 

He really did love his family, even though there was always this little disconnect there. Ian’d always had his own life outside of the Gallagher’s and that fact was now more evident than it ever was before. Sometimes he wished he could’ve let them in more.

Ian tried calling Lip. The first time, he didn't answer. The second time he did, voice tight and angry with Ian. Part of Ian didn’t blame Lip for his anger, thought it was pretty justified actually —Ian left. Just up and left everyone, like Monica. But the other part, the part where he wasn’t used to Lip not being there for him or talking to him like a brother, didn’t understand. That part was sad and kind of angry still, from his big brother’s words.

“Just take care of yourself, Ian,” Lip had said. “Okay?”

The closer they got to the next full moon, the more Ian started to get nervous about it. He didn’t have a fucking plan. As far as he knew, Mickey didn’t have a plan either. Not the the Werewolf actually wanted to talk about it. He’d always been closed up though, so that was nothing new. 

Ian had been trying to keep out of his head, making more of an effort to not be so fucking invasive. It really wasn’t fair that he did that, Ian wasn’t completely oblivious to that, it was rude as hell. And it wasn’t an excuse, a good one anyway, but Mickey was just… addicting. He was comfortable, to Ian, and familiar. Like home.

Ian knew how fucked it sounded, but he wished he could open Mickey up and crawl inside of him and just live there. God, they were a couple of fucked up kids, huh? Ian just loved him so fucking much, he didn't know what to do with himself.

Mickey would always be asleep when Ian got back from work, curled up in sheets, sleeping on his stomach. Ian felt this bubble in his chest while he took a minute to look at him. He toed his shoes off and stripped down to his underwear, slipping onto the mattress, gently moving Mickey’s arm so he could dip under it and snuggle up close to his side. 

Then Mickey grunted softly and moved his arm down to wrap tightly around Ian’s waist, pulling him even closer. Ian’s face was not even inches away from Mickey’s; he brought a hand up to brush his fingers into dark hair, while he looked at the splattering of light freckles on pale skin, the stark contrast of black eyebrows that were completely relaxed. 

He tilted his head forward and pressed his lips to Mickey’s, just once, just needing that contact. In return, Mickey squeezed him a little tighter, his fingers brushing small circles into the skin of Ian’s back. Ian smiled to himself when Mickey moved them in his half-sleep state, pushing Ian to lay on his back so he could drape half of himself on top of Ian’s side, head resting on Ian’s shoulder, rubbing his face against his skin. 

Mickey was quietly accepting the fact that he craved contact, despite how much shit he used to give Ian for it. Ian didn’t even have to get inside his head to know that the brunette loved that touch, the warmth of their bodies pressing against each other. They got at least a couple of hours of sleep together, between working schedules, and sometimes during those couple of hours, he’d wake up to Mickey just wrapped up in him. He wouldn't want it any other way.

 

* * *

 

** Three Months Ago **

 

“Now,” Ian whispers, falling backwards with Mickey.

It happens faster than the movies, when you’re plummeting from the top of a building. Ian has _seconds_ to react. The wind rushes against his back, his body humming as he holds on tight to Mickey’s hand. They’re free-falling, yelling and laughing, stomachs dropping; Ian catches them just a foot (maybe less) before they smash onto ground below. 

He doesn't know how to explain it, it’s like a muscle, a reflex —how he knows when to stop them. He just pulls them up hard, slowing them until they stop. Staring up into the bright blue sky as they are still suspended in mid-air; a plane is flying above them, through the clouds.

“ _Shit!_ ” Mickey half laughs, half yells, his grip on Ian’s hand is bruising, but Ian’s laughing too hard to care. “Holy shit!”

Ian finally looks over at the brunette, grinning at the wild blue eyes looking right back at him. As gently as he can, Ian lets them go, sinking back down onto the grass below them. Almost immediately, Mickey crawls over to him, pinning him down with this snarling grin.

“That was insane,” Mickey breathes hard, shaking his head, “That was fucking insane.”

“Told you,” Ian can’t stop smiling, his body humming with adrenaline and want. 

Millions of little electrical currents are coursing through him, licking at every nerve ending and jolting him alive. He’ll have to nap later, after doing that, but right now the last thing he needs is sleep.

Mickey dips down and presses a kiss to Ian’s mouth, fingers curling almost painfully around his wrists, “Fucking shaking.”

“You wanna do it again?” Ian gasps when Mickey trails hard, wet kisses across his jaw and to his neck.

“No,” Mickey presses his hips down against Ian, voice rough and thick, “No, I wanna fuck. God, I fucking need it right now. Need you.”

Ian laughs and moans at the same time, stomach flipping at Mickey’s words, “Gotta move inside.” 

He says the words but the last thing he want’s to do it get up. He’d be perfectly content with having Mickey there. But it’s too out in the open, so they can’t. Ian never thought he’d be the one to tell them that they needed to hide, but Mickey is shaking so bad and wanting it so bad that Ian know’s he’s not thinking clearly.

Mickey’s almost savage in his touches, riding high on adrenaline, pulling Ian up from the ground and practically dragging him into the building that they just fell from. Ian lets the brunette push him around, feeling so fucking wanted and needed, riding on his own high of adrenaline and the fact that Mickey can’t keep his hands off of him.

 

* * *

 

The day before the day of the full moon, Ian, Mandy, and Mickey pull some money together and buy a shitty old pickup truck at a shitty old used car lot for a whopping nine hundred dollars. It’s gray, it’s been through hell, and it’s a tight fit. But it was cheap and ran decent.

They spent the rest of the day driving around the back roads, on the outskirts of Stonefox, trying to find places where Mickey could be isolated and hopefully unable to escape, god forbid he wasn’t able to let go.

Mandy immediately gets into the pickup truck life. With Mickey in the middle, and Ian driving, she’s left in the passenger seat, bare feet dangling out of the window, turning up the old, crackly radio. Ian grins over at her and she grins back, hair whipping all over the place. Mickey’s not as enthused with her newfound love of the truck, batting her flying hair out of his face.

Then Mickey finds it. It’s a broken down, abandoned church that Mickey wants to check out. Honestly, it looks like it'll fall to pieces from the next breeze that rolls by.

Mandy pulls a face when Ian parks the truck and they climb out. It’s a tiny thing, broken boards that were still clinging to chipped white paint, half the roof fallen in, vines and overgrown grass taking over, choking out what once probably looked cheerful and inviting. Now, the church looks like it’s better suited in a horror movie.

“Dunno about this,” Mandy says, her voice quiet.

Ian nods, following Mickey around to the back of the little broken building. It smells like rotting wood and mold —there’s what looks like some kind of small animal skeleton poking out from a tuft of grass. Maybe a cat.

“There. It’s got one of those cellar things,” Mickey looks back at Ian and Mandy, pointing to two rusted metal doors on the ground.

“Be my guest,” Mandy scoffs, folding her arms under her chest.

“You scared?” Mickey grins. 

“Fuck you.”

Ian rolls his eyes and helps Mickey pry the doors open. They squeak loudly, cutting through the peaceful surroundings. Concrete steps lead down to a dark, dank, endless looking pit and Ian thinks that maybe Mandy has the right idea.

“Alright Harry Potter, shine some light down there,” Mickey knocks his shoulder against Ian’s.

Ian narrows his eyes at the brunette, “Can’t you see in the dark?”

“Not a fucking dog.”

“I’m not Harry Potter.”

“Enough, children,” Mandy sighs, shoving her way past Mickey and Ian to climb down the steps. “Cellphones out, use the light. Dumbasses, I swear to god. If I inhale black mold, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Mickey scoffed, “Not gonna do anything to us, if we do.”

“Not the point, asshole.”

It was so dark and eerie and quiet under the church. The lights from their phones dimly beamed over a mess of roots and old storage boxes left to rot; the wet smell of mold was stronger than ever. There was also about an inch of standing water covering the whole floor and Ian thought that this was probably not the best place for Mickey to turn, but they didn't really have any other options.

“Gonna have to do,” Mickey mumbled, sloshing water as he moved around the cellar. “Just fucking throw me in here and lock the doors, I guess. Fuck.”

Ian shook his head, “I’ll be here too.”

Both Mickey and Mandy were deathly quiet for a moment. Ian couldn't see them too well, but he knew they were both turned towards him, just staring at him.

“Fuck no.”

“Ian, he could kill you.”

“He’s not gonna kill me, he’s gonna let go,” Ian said, feeling confident in his words. He knew he could do it. Mickey trusted him. And loved him. He’d let go for him, he was sure of it.

 

* * *

 

Ian gets his chance to touch Mickey everywhere he can. After calling in sick to work, the two of them lock themselves in their room — _their_ room that they share, _theirs_ — for the entire day. He focuses on getting the Werewolf to relax. It’s harder than it looks, since the day of a full moon, up until the moment the turn starts, Werewolves are agitated and tense. 

But Ian is nothing but patient, pressing his mouth to Mickey’s skin, saying those old words, drawing him further and further away from tension, getting him to feel all the good and less of the bad.

Between tangled up naps, Ian touches Mickey. He touches him _everywhere_ , running his hands up the length of his spine, over his shoulders, dropping impossibly soft, slow kisses across his pale skin. They fuck deep, kissing the whole time, sweating and moving against each other in heavy, moaning waves. 

Hours tick by and Ian doesn't stop, no matter how tired he is, he doesn't stop dragging his fingers up and down Mickey’s legs, palming his ass, massaging his back. He’s memorized every curve and dip to this boy, could probably draw him with his eyes closed.

And Mickey… eventually, after some convincing, Mickey is _gone_. The way he arches and moans and touches Ian in return, he can tell that the brunette’s walls, in these moments, have been completely obliterated. He gives in to Ian, he lets go of everything else for Ian, wearing himself out.

The smell of sweat and sex is heavy in the air; Ian breathes it in, back arching, burying his hands into Mickey’s soft hair as he’s swallowed down over and over again. Mickey moans around him, taking him deep into his mouth, as far as he can go, before he climbs up Ian’s body, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses behind him. 

Mickey explores Ian’s body too, he drags his tongue and lips over the cut of his hip, his abdomen, up his sternum, lightly nipping at his skin with his teeth, not too hard, though Ian wishes he’d bite down. 

It’s hard to breathe, hard to think properly while Mickey works his way up Ian’s body. Something changes in the Werewolf then, like a second wind —the call of the moon, Ian’s not sure, but whatever it is, it pushes Mickey further, wakes him up. 

He feels how tense with want Mickey is, feels the open and wet kisses and scraping teeth across his skin get a little more desperate, hears a low rumble of a growl against his neck. Ian can’t help it, he clings to Mickey, touching everywhere he can, just needing _everything_.

“Can I fuck you?” Mickey breathes heavy against Ian’s mouth; he’s trembling above Ian, hands skimming everywhere, unsure where to settle, “Wanna fuck you —be inside you, _fuck_.”

Heat and electric ripped through Ian. Mickey’d never fucked him before and Ian didn’t exactly favor bottoming, but the thought of _Mickey_ fucking him… he groaned, a grin spreading over his lips, “You tryna claim me or something?”

Mickey breathed a laugh against his mouth, kissing him again, his hips rocking down against Ian, pressing them together, “Don’t need to fuck you for that.”

Another electric current, Ian was practically vibrating with want, “Yeah —why’s that?”

“You know why, asshole,” Mickey reached between them, wrapping his hand around Ian’s leaking erection, stroking him slowly. “Fucking mine.”

Ian arched, head tilting back into the mattress, where Mickey took full advantage of the opportunity to kiss and suck at his skin there, “That mean what I think it means?”

Mickey pulled back with this shit-eating smirk, releasing Ian off to grab the tube of lube by the mattress, “What, that you’re my bitch? Probably.”

“You fucking wish,” Ian snorted, situating his legs to that Mickey could settle between them better. 

He ignored the little reminder of Lip’s words, knowing that Mickey didn’t mean it the way his brother did. Besides, he _really_ didn't want or need to think about his brother right now, especially with how good Mickey looked, somehow concentrated and unraveling all at the same time. Ian watched the brunette carefully slick his fingers up and set the lube to the side for now. 

“Are we… you know, like, together?”

Mickey gave him a lazy, lopsided smile before stretching out over him, reaching down between his propped up legs, trailing slick fingers down his premium to circle and rub against his ring of muscle. Ian grabbed onto Mickey’s shoulders, his anchor, and let out a broken moan as Mickey worked patiently and gently to open him up, still not answering his question.

“Just breathe,” Mickey murmured, laying soft kisses along Ian’s shoulder and neck. “I got this.”

By the time Mickey pushed a finger into him, Ian was panting and moaning, unable to believe how fucking good it felt and how much he needed more, needed Mickey inside him, buried and pushing and stretching him open. It was this violent, desperate need that Ian didn’t even have to touch Mickey’s mind to know he was feeling that too.

“Are we?” Ian managed to ask again, his words slurring together a little.

Mickey pressed his mouth to Ian’s, kissing him slow, like the pace at which his finger was pushing in and out of him, “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions, Gallagher. Of course we are.”

With his last word, Mickey worked a second finger into him and pushed up against his prostate, and Ian swore he was gonna fucking break in two, it felt so good. He always knew that Mickey could be gentle and loving, but he never thought he’d have this kind of patience. Especially since in just a few hours, he’d be experiencing an inordinate amount of pain and stress. 

“Don’t want anyone else,” Mickey whispered, so fucking quietly that Ian almost missed it.

Ian shuddered as Mickey opened him up, touching in places that no one else had ever been able to touch _like that_. Ian was supposed to be making Mickey a bag of bones right now, supposed to be getting him to relax and clear his mind of what was to come tonight, but right that that moment, the tables were turned on him. And it was fucking amazing.

“Need more?” Mickey asked.

If he took any more at this point, Ian was sure he’d break apart right then and there, “M’good.”

Mickey’s fingers slowly slipped from his body so he could grab a condom. Ian whined at the loss, feeling empty, needing more, craving more. He reached for Mickey, kissing him, letting his his legs be hitched up around Mickey’s waist, letting Mickey take care of him this time. He trusted this boy. He loved this boy. He’d do anything for this boy.

It was a sweet burn, when Mickey pushed inside him. Slow, steady, making sure not to hurt him. Ian felt so fucking full, so stretched out, wonderfully feeling like he was being split in two —such a fucking awful way to put it, but it was true. 

“Fuck, so fucking tight,” Mickey panted, finally bottoming out. "Goddamn, Gallagher."

Ian gasped for breath, back arching, grabbing at Mickey anywhere he could, “Gimme — _fuck_ — gimme a sec.”

Mickey stared down at him, his eyes flashing that amber color. He licked his lips and slowly dipped his head down to kiss Ian. It was so soft and sweet, Ian could barely fucking take it, feeling Mickey so tense with want and need, but being so goddamn gentle with him, at his most revved up… it was surreal.

When he felt his body relax and the sweet burn melt into just mostly sweetness, Ian nodded at Mickey, “Okay.”

He was in some kind of pleasure-fueled haze, only able to focus on the feel of Mickey pushing in and out of him slow, the feel of lips and tongue moving along his collarbone and neck, to his mouth. The more Ian moaned and clung to Mickey, the more he felt him roughen up a little bit, pushing in a little faster, breathing a little harder.

Mickey was flush against his front, trapping Ian’s leaking erection between them. He pinned him there, setting his arms on the outside of Ian’s, getting right in his face, pushing deep —bumping up against his prostate and making everything a little blurry around the edges. Ian could barely move, barely able to bend his elbows to reach for Mickey’s sides. 

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian groaned. Mickey rolled his hips into him, just barely, eyes _so_ focused, still bumping up right against his prostate and Ian was sure this was how he was going to die. His whole body was shaking, sweat beading up on his forehead, trapped under Mickey. God it was good. He never thought he’d like being trapped like this, but _fuck_ it was good.

“Feel so good,” Mickey told him. Ian’s stomach flipped at the words. “Fucking perfect.”

_That’s_ when it happened, what Ian had wanted for so fucking long, but had never came out with it. While he pinned him down, Mickey stretched his mouth open, over the crook of Ian’s neck and bit down just hard enough to where Ian knew he’d have those indentions for the rest of the night. Mickey growled deep. Ian shuddered and keened.

It was fucking perfect, that sting, that edge of pain, that weird primal claiming Mickey had over him —that they shared now. Ian’s eyes rolled back and he whined, letting himself be held down and taken over like that. Again, that trust more evident than ever. Mickey could kill him, could rip him apart if he wanted to, but Ian knew he wouldn’t. It made it so much more intense, somehow. 

He was vaguely aware that he was babbling nonsense, body tensing up and jerking under Mickey, gulping down air like it was his last. He felt that bite everywhere, felt every nerve ending in his body spark and crackle with want.

Mickey dragged his tongue over the bite before pulling away, letting Ian move, to kiss him. Ian panted _yes_ and _more_ and _fuck_ between the hard, biting kisses as Mickey’s pace quickened, one hand wrapping tightly around Ian, stroking him in time with his thrusts and Jesus _Christ_ Ian was not going to last much longer. And as Ian neared closer to that edge, listening to skin hitting skin, Mickey’s heavy breaths and deep grunts, the way that dark, eerie growl bubbled up from his belly, Ian felt absolutely at peace. His anchor.

He grabbed onto Mickey’s face, looking up into blown-out blue eyes, just looking at the boy he loved. Ian, breath heavy, body humming, smiled up at Mickey. Mickey smiled back, then his eyes closed, head tilting into Ian’s touch.

When Ian came, Mickey swallowed up his loud moan, pressing his mouth softly against his, kissing him through a shaking, blissed-out orgasm. Ian rocked and whined under this boy he loved, coming between their bodies. It was difficult to catch his breath and Mickey pressed completely on top of him again, not caring about the mess, rolling his hips, pressing deep into him, kissing him hotly.

Ian wrapped his arms around the brunette, lips brushing against his ear, “Let go for me,” he said, dragging his nails up Mickey’s back. “Let go for me, Mickey.”

And he did, like it was on cue, Mickey fell apart, head dropping back down to the crook of his neck, teeth biting down next to the first spot; Ian tensed and tightened around him, holding on tight, taking it all. It was fucking beautiful, the stutter of his hips, the low whine as he bit him, the way he pinned Ian down, hand tangled in his hair, letting his whole weight just fall onto him.

Both of them were out of breath and sticky with come and sweat, a lump of limbs on damp sheets. It was dirty and perfect. Ian hummed softly when Mickey pulled his hips back to slide out of him and take the condom off, his mouth dropping wet, open mouthed kisses over his bites.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed a laugh, still not moving off of Ian, but pressing his face into the base of his throat, working his lips and tongue against the skin there. How he had the energy to keep this up, Ian didn’t fucking know, but he wasn’t complaining. It felt too good and he really loved this side of Mickey, when he loved on him like this.

 

* * *

 

Admittedly, Ian was… a little sore —his whole body, not just his ass; he was gonna sleep _real_ fucking good tonight, that was for sure. But it was the last thing he was worried about at the time. He sat on the concrete steps of the church basement. Mandy had locked both him and Mickey inside, not wanting to, but respecting what Ian was trying to do. (However, Ian, if he needed, could blow the door open and get out. It would take some serious energy to do so.) 

Since she had already let go and was able to handle herself, so she was free to run, free to turn outside. So she left them alone, hugging her brother and best friend for hopefully _not_ the last time.

They had stopped by a little hardware store on the way out to the little abandoned church, picking up a couple of those battery-operated lanterns so the basement wouldn't be so impossibly dark, so Ian could watch how Mickey was doing.

And right now, Mickey was pacing, every once in a while his eyes casting over to Ian, head shaking. He scratched roughly at his arms and neck, almost taking on an odd look of a junkie, scratching hard, shaking himself out every once in a while, grunting to himself. 

Ian knew he wasn’t thrilled about this, not being locked up, having Ian just _there_ , nowhere to go if things got bad. But again, Ian trusted him. And Mickey trusted Ian, so Ian hoped that that would be enough to ease his mind a little.

With every step that Mickey took, water kicked up. It was only an inch, but it was dirty, stinking water that splashed against the rotting storage boxes scattered around the small room.

“If this goes bad, you gotta get the fuck out or…” Mickey ran his hands roughly over his hair, pausing to look at Ian. “You gotta do what you gotta do, you understand me?”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Ian said, pushing off of the steps to go to Mickey.

The brunette tensed, easing away from Ian, but Ian was having none of that shit, reaching out to take the brunette’s hands in his own, pulling him close, lips brushing against his, “I trust you.”

“Shouldn’t,” Mickey whispered.

“Mick,” Ian breathed, feeling the shorter boys body shake and heat against him, knowing it was coming quickly, the start of the turn. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Every instinct should have told Ian that he needed to get as far away from Mickey as he could have. But there was no little voice in the back of his head, no feeling of unease. He held tightly to Mickey, just holding him, trying to soothe him, to relax him; hand running up and down his back, brushing fingers through his hair. It would be okay. Mickey would let go for him.

Then the hit came, suddenly and violently, making Mickey wrench himself away from Ian, breathing hard and grabbing onto the edge of a storage box. Ian took a step back, not out of fear, but to give Mickey a little space for a moment. 

He couldn't place a hand to Mickey’s chest and say the old, archaic words to help him let go. This called for Mickey to do this on his own, to not have his body manipulated into giving up control. It would have been easy to do it that way. 

Ian watched with his heart in his throat, seeing the way Mickey tensed up, trying to curl into himself, hearing the labored breaths and painful noises being ripped from his throat. Ian couldn’t really imagine going through something like that, couldn't imagine how fucking painful it was. He didn’t think he’d be able to do it.

When Mickey fell to his knees into the water, Ian followed him, falling to his own knees right in front of him, placing gentle hands on his shoulders. Mickey winced from the touch, but didn’t lean away from him. So Ian scooted forward, ignoring the fact that because of the angle, his shoes were filling with water now, his socks soaked, his jeans soaked as well. He scooted forward and held Mickey’s face, forcing the brunette to look at him, to keep his eyes focused on him.

“You’re okay,” Ian told him. 

Mickey’s face twisted in pain, his own hands coming up to cover Ian’s. He didn’t look away, not even for a second. It was so dark in the basement, the lanterns barely giving enough light, but Mickey’s eyes flashed that amber color and it was so beautiful.

Carefully, Ian kissed Mickey, breathing into him, “Do you want to let go?”

“Yes,” Mickey hisses it out through clenched teeth, eyes hard. 

Ian touches his mind, tastes his thoughts, even though he’s really not supposed to, he promised he’d stop. But he needs to understand. And Mickey’s not lying. He wants to let go so fucking bad. He wants his body to stop fighting, wants to _run_ and hunt something down. He craves taking down a fucking deer or some other big animal, tearing at it’s flesh. The blood, the heartbeat, the chase. He fucking wants it all.

It should bother Ian, part of it does, but this is Mickey’s nature -the whole killing an animal thing (better than a human though, right?). This is what he was built for. He wants to run so fucking bad, it aches. And Ian wants this for Mickey too, wants him to stop hurting, to stop feeling like a fucking failure. He wants him to live.

Ian helps Mickey tug his shirt off, tossing it behind him to lay on the stairs, away from the water. The brunette’s skin soaked with sweat and Ian watches with wide eyes as his bones seem to move and stretch under the pale flesh. He’s never seen this before, especially up close, inches away.

Mickey makes these noises, these heart-wrenching painful guttural noises as doubles over next to Ian, hands splashing hard into the standing water. Mickey on his hands and knees, Ian watches with slight horror as his spine moves, expands, stretches under his skin. He hears this sick popping noise and Mickey sobs out this noise that breaks Ian’s heart. Ian’s frozen, watching this play out, not wanting to touch the boy he loves because he knows he’ll probably make it worse. He’s helpless, useless in this. It’s all up to Mickey now.

“Breathe, Mickey,” Ian barely puts the words together, “You’re okay. Let go, it’ll be okay.”

“Ian,” Mickey grunts, rough and drawn out. “You gotta get out, it’s… not… it’s not gonna happen. Gotta get the fuck out.”

But Ian shakes his head, moving and reaching for Mickey again, carefully taking his face into his hands, turning his head, making him look up at him, “Not going anywhere.”

“I can’t,” Mickey sounds like he’s swallowed glass, eyes red around the rim, blood collecting at the corners of his mouth. He looks like he's going to be sick. “Can’t do it.”

“Yes you can,” Ian wipes at the tear that slips down Mickey’s cheek. His broken, shaking Werewolf. “Let go, Mickey —if you want to.”

He’s never seen him so vulnerable and it kills him, because he knows that Mickey hates that Ian is seeing him like this. Ian doesn’t think it makes Mickey weak, but he knows that Mickey thinks that —doesn’t even have to touch his mind to know that either. His Mickey is proud and strong, his body is too proud and strong to give in, fighting against it’s nature.

“Look at me,” Ian says, keeping his voice soft. Mickey does. “If you don’t want to let go, we’ll figure it out. Do what’ll make you happy, okay? You _can_ do it though.”

“I wanna let go,” Mickey, still hunched over on his hands and knees, punches out this almost childlike sob, eyes clenching. God, it was hard to watch, Ian hated this so fucking much.

He pushes Mickey’s hair out of his face and nods, “I love you. No matter what, okay? I love you.”

Mickey sobers very suddenly, stills very suddenly. He stares at him so clearly and unblinking that for a minute Ian’s not even sure if the other boy is breathing. Through the dim light, Ian sees Mickey’s pupils expand, the blue flickering to amber, but his pupils are so blown out that it’s just this tiny little ring of color. It’s like Mickey’s not there anymore, not aware. And for a split second, Ian is fucking scared.

But he has to be brave —for himself and for Mickey. “I love you,” he says one more time. “It’s okay to let go, you’ll be okay. I’m here.”

It could almost be considered comical, in a certain light, the way that Mickey just drops so suddenly, so heavily. As soon as Ian finished the word _go_ , he was on the floor of the basement, in that stinking dank water, on his side… just convulsing and twisting up in painful positions. His rib bones pushing out, straining against his skin, chest protruding sickly, arms doing much of the same.

Ian scrambled back to the steps, mouth dry, eyes stinging and wide, trying to keep his breath steady. He wasn’t sure if this was how it was supposed to go, but whatever it was that he was watching didn't look like something that _anyone_ could survive.

He’d never be able to describe it, if someone were to ask, but Mickey, silent as ever, not even a painful moan or wince, changed right before his eyes, in that awfully lit basement. And Ian couldn't stop the tears from falling, watching the way Mickey’s skin bowed and stretched from the bones and muscles moving quickly. It was something he’d never forget, the way his whole head shifted, his face jutting unnaturally out, morphing into that wrong wolf shape.

By the time it was over, Ian was shaking and feeling so fucking helpless because he didn't know if it worked, didn't know if Mickey let go. He thought for _sure_ that he would, thought that he could do it, but just not knowing, never seeing this happen before… he felt just completely lost.

On shaky legs, Mickey —his wolf— dark and gray with blood dripping from his mouth, stood. He shook his body out a couple times, not looking at Ian yet, seemingly like he was collecting himself, processing what he just went through.

“Mick?” Ian whispered, unsure if he would even be able to understand him.

Mickey moved quickly, head whipping around to look at Ian, amber eyes glowing gold and red in the light of the lantern. A deep, dark growl rang through the silence of the basement, like a roll of thunder. His lip curled back, bright white teeth glinting through the darkness; he snapped his jaw a couple times and shook out his body once more.

Ian held his breath, stuck, frozen in place. He always hated how people in movies, when they’re scared, just freeze up like that and yet here he was. Face to face with a Werewolf —who could tear him into pieces in a blink of an eye— frozen solid.

“M-Mick?” Ian whispered again.

He turned, slowly advancing on Ian, stepping carefully in the water flooding the basement floor, barely making a single splash with every step; his mouth was relaxed now, but Ian could see something sharp and dangerous behind his eyes. Ian took a deep breath, getting his body ready to fight or get the hell out of there, if need be.

Still, Mickey didn't answer —of _course_ he didn’t fucking answer though, he couldn't _speak_ for god’s sake. Ian’s mind was running all over the place, watching the large, amber-eyed _wrong_ wolf come closer towards him, carefully moving up the steps.

Stupidly, Ian reached out with a trembling hand, eyes closing tightly, begging whatever higher power there might be in the universe to have some fucking mercy _for once_. His hand stayed suspended in the air for what seemed like hours. 

He could feel hot, damp breath bleed over the skin of the back of his hand, could hear the endless low growl that sent a shock of fear down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up; he clenched his eyes even tighter, fingers curling into a fist, arm retreating back to fold against his side. He couldn't look, not wanting to see Mickey that way before it happened… before Mickey lunged at him and tried to tear him apart.

But the sharp teeth never came. The growling subsided. And slowly, carefully, Ian opened his eyes, breath hitching when two large amber orbs were directly in front of his face. Gray and black fur, the wrong wolf shape. Just standing there right in front of him, inches away, face to fucking face. _Mickey_.

Like a fish, Ian opened and closed his mouth a couple times, begging his throat to find the words, to find some kind of voice.

“Did… did you let go—”

Mickey surged forward and, much like an _actual_ dog, bumped his forehead against Ian’s jaw, rubbing up against him. Ian felt like he exhaled a lifetimes worth of breath, eyes stinging sharply, knowing that this was what Mickey had wanted for so long, had needed for long but was never able to reach. He did it. He fucking let go.

“You’d probably bite me if I pet you right now, wouldn’t you?” Ian sniffed, wiping at his eyes so he could see clearly. 

Mickey huffed at him, moving up the stairs, walking around him, rubbing his side against Ian. It was fucking weird, on one hand. This was Mickey. This was a fucking _Werewolf_. Just… pushing his body against Ian’s back, his head against the back of Ian’s head. The motherfucker, Ian realized, was rubbing his scent on him. So Ian rolled his eyes and just let it happen.

“So… are you good?” Ian asked, hoping that Mickey was even understanding him in the first place. This was uncharted territory.

Mickey huffed again.

Then came the pawing and scratching on the other side of the cellar door. The low whines of Mandy, trying to get in. Ian concentrated his energy, calling for Mandy to stand back as he opened the metal doors. With his mind, he pushed hard, standing back as the doors shook and bowed under the energy. Until finally they sprung open.

Mickey shot out of the basement faster than anything Ian had ever seen. He scrambled up the stairs after him, watching as the two black and gray wrong wolves growled and snapped at each other, bumping heads, knocking shoulders. Playing.

Ian smiled at the scene in front of him. Mickey was a little larger than Mandy, but not by much.They looked _almost_ identical though, except for Mandy had this ridge of black down her back, while Mickey had a black muzzle. Ian would never tell either one of them this, but they were kind of cute, in a really fucked up and macabre way.

Then after a final look back at Ian, they _ran_ , just fucking ran into the darkness, growling and howling together, fast as lighting, they were gone. 

He felt very alone for a second, standing next to that abandoned church, in the dark. He felt very small and alone and a little lost. After everything that had happened today —hell, that had happened in the past month, it was all coming to a close. There was an odd emptiness that came with it. 

Relief that Mickey let go, relief that Mandy was away from her father, but still, emptiness. Like a _now what?_ Now what does he do with his life? Run forever? But that was okay, when it came to it; almost felt right. He had Mickey and Mandy now. And although he didn't have his family, they were still always there, in a way. 

He’d always been separate from his family, always kept them at arms length, did his own thing without letting them in. Maybe this was why, this was where he was supposed to be. Because it wasn’t like that with Mickey and Mandy, he didn't want them at arms length —they were his family now. He felt this certain amount of guilt over that, but he still couldn't help but think that this was where he was supposed to be in his life, these were the people he was supposed to end up with. 

Ian made his way to the beat up truck, climbing into the back, where he left a bunch of blankets and pillows. It had been a while since he’d slept outside. Last time had been in ROTC, in high school. But it was a nice, cool night out and there was a weird comfort in the sound of distant howling —Ian couldn’t tell if it was Mickey or Mandy, but either way… it was kind of nice.

So he laid down in the bed of the truck, under the blankets, probably way too trusting for his own good, who knew what else was out there. Ian strangely felt very safe though, like even though Mickey was running far into the surrounding fields with his sister, he was still keeping an eye on him or something. 

That, and the fact that he was hit with this overwhelming wave of exhaustion from the day's constant sex and anxiety about Mickey's turn helped him fall right asleep. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Ian woke up in the middle of the truck bed, sandwiched by the two Milkovich Werewolves, dressed and back in their human forms -dead asleep and breathing loudly. Mandy snuggled into his back, arm wrapped around his waist like he was a fucking teddy bear. 

Mickey in front of him, face barely an inch away from his, with a thin layer of dirt and smears of blood all over his skin; he had an arm draped around Ian’s shoulder, fingers resting in the back of his hair. And he had the most serene, relaxed look on his face, just completely at peace, and it made this bubble form in Ian’s chest as he reached out and wrapped his arm around Mickey’s middle, dragging him even closer.

Just barely, Mickey opened his eyes, his fingers flexing in Ian’s hair, a soft sigh escaping his lips, like part relief, part exhaustion.

“Did you have a good time?” Ian whispered.

With a little twitch of a smile, Mickey whispered back, “Ran all night. Killed a deer.”

Ian leaned forward and brushed his lips across Mickey’s. Mickey kissed him back, barely though, too exhausted to move too much. Ian knew that he’d probably sleep until tomorrow morning, wearing himself out by running all night, for the first time.

“Thank you,” Mickey said, fingers making a little circle on the back of Ian’s neck. He looked like he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, the circles tracing over Ian’s skin slowing down. “You know I… you know I love you too, right?”

Ian grinned, chest bubbling up with warmth and excitement that he tried to keep contained. Yes, he’d known but to hear it, to have it said out loud like that just did things to him, made him think he could do anything, be anyone. Fuck, he really loved him. A lot.

“Really hate to break up this sappy love fest,” Mandy’s grumpy, sleep-ridden voice mumbled from behind Ian. “But you two need to shut the fuck up. Douchebag had me running everywhere last night like a fucking toddler.”

Mickey, eyes widening and hardening, lifted his head to alternate between looking behind Ian, to Ian’s waist, where his sisters arm was wrapped tightly. He didn’t say anything, just reached down and uncurled his sisters arm then pulled Ian closer to him. 

Ian snorted, rolling his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning Explanation:** Basically, what happens is in the first part of the flashback, Ian and Mickey are standing at the edge of the roof of a six story building, planning to jump off and have Ian use his powers to stop them before they hit the ground. Like I said. Dumb teenage boys doing dumb teenage boy shit. In the second part, they jump. No one gets hurt and everything is okay, Ian stops them just when he needs to and they get this a rush of adrenaline, blahblahblah. This flashback was important to me, to show (in a very literal and in-your-face way) how much Mickey trusts Ian. Even though a fall from a six story building wouldn't have necessarily killed Mickey -because you know, Werewolf- he's willing to just let go and jump off a fucking building, trusting that Ian would make sure both of them would be okay. And they were okay. And there's some cute little moments and some character development that's cute too. Just saying.
> 
> \---
> 
> There will be an epilogue/wrap-up chapter! It won't be anywhere near as long as this chapter or the first chapter though. But loose ends need to be settled, so, keep an eye out in the next few days for that!
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and the kudos and just all the love that everyone's shown my little werewolf au :) I was super nervous about posting because supernatural type au's aren't everyone cup of tea, but I'm really glad I did. Because I wrote this for me and I was so excited about it. I'm rambling. Anyways, keep a look out for the epilogue, I love you all! Xx


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Character Death. (it's gonna be okay, trust me)

** Three Months Later  
** ** Virginia — Appalachian Mountains **

 

He probably, honestly, should have seen it coming. It had been too good, too quiet for the past three months. They all had decided to head further East, to go into the mountains, because of a very frantic phone call from Lip at two in the morning, just days after Mickey had let go for the first time.

Werewolves kept an eye out for each other; they were heavily connected. Witches were much the same —they were connected, at least, but had far less loyalties; when it came down to it, it was safe to say that Witches were gossipy little shits. 

Ian had went ice fucking cold, listening to Lip explain to him that he’d gotten wind that Terry had not only had other Werewolves keeping an eye out for Mickey, but he’d gotten connected with some fucked up Witches as well. So naturally, he’d found out where they were. And he was making plans to make a trip to Ohio to reunite with his children.

So very quickly, and very _immediately_ , they left Stonefox. Thank god they had the truck now, loading all their shit into the back, the mattresses and bags of clothes and other things they’d picked up. Within an hour, they were gone. No trace. And that’s when they decided to go somewhere more secluded, to get away from prying eyes.

They picked up a used camper to hook onto the back of the truck —king sized bed that took up most of the back, and not much else besides a little kitchenette, bathroom and place for a small table with chairs. It was cramped and the inside needed some serious disinfecting, but it had to do.

For three months, it was quiet. It wasn’t _easy_ , but it was quiet, and quiet meant good. They were deep in the mountains, far away from any town, just… out in the middle of fucking nowhere. And that in itself was hard. Having to travel almost an hour to get some fucking food, or to work was hard. They didn’t work full-time, to keep their time around other people as limited as possible. And they arranged so they all worked on the same days, roughly the same hours, so they were in and out of town together.

Then the sharing a fucking bed with Mickey _and Mandy_ … not so ideal. Kind of really fucking frustrating at times, but they had to deal with that. Being _adults_ , and everything. (The first night it was tense and awkward, then Mandy had said, “Well, this is not exactly how I was picturing my first time in bed with two guys.” And the three of them laughed for a good five minutes.)

So, there was a lot of fucking against trees, in the dark, for Ian and Mickey. A lot of mornings where all Ian wanted to do was roll over and settle between Mickey’s legs, to press himself against him and do the sleepy dry hump thing like a normal couple. It didn’t necessarily put a _strain_ on their relationship, but it still wasn’t easy. Mandy wasn’t thrilled about it either, obviously.

On the other side of that, they felt safe together at night. Sleeping between two warm-bodied, snuggly Werewolves should have been any Witches worst nightmare. But Mandy was his best friend. And Mickey was his anchor. This was just how it had to be for a little while.

It wasn’t easy. But it was good. For three months. 

And then it wasn’t. 

It was sudden. So sudden that Ian barely understood what was happening until it was almost too late.

Maybe sometime around two or three in the morning, when Ian was curled up in between Mickey and Mandy, his chest pressed against Mickey’s back; Mandy pressed snugly to his back because it was pretty cold outside and they didn't have a heater. (It probably looked weird. Whatever. The whole sleeping situation was weird, but it was fucking cold, and they had no other options.)

Mandy was the first to wake up. She heard a quiet rustling just outside of the camper. She, very quietly, shook awake Mickey and Ian, putting her hands over their mouths to keep them quiet. By this time, Ian was trying _so_ hard to wake up fully, blinking rapidly, barely able to see what the fuck was going on in the dark, not knowing what the hell Mandy was getting at, waking them up when all of them had leave for work in a few hours.

He barely registered the silent conversation Mandy and Mickey were having. He’d been dead fucking asleep and was still so fucking tired. But then he heard another noise and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up.

The door to the camper creaked open, not too loud, but it was slow, like someone was trying to keep as quiet as possible. Ian felt his heart pounding hard in his chest, heard his blood rushing in his ears as he sat up in bed, blinking a few times, trying to clear up his vision and see what the fuck was happening.

And it was so fast. So very fucking fast.

Mickey kept a gun under the bed. He reached for it. Mandy held tightly to Ian’s shoulder; he could feel her shaking, could feel how fucking scared she was because the three of them knew exactly who was breaking into the camper. They knew what was about to happen.

It might have happened in two seconds. Maybe five. Ian didn’t know. It was all a blur.

The door swung open. Terry’s rough, angry voice cut through the darkness. Mandy gasped. Mickey cocked his revolver. Ian’s body warmed and filled with energy as he raised his hand and pushed hard, sending Terry flying backwards towards the front of the camper.

“Go!” Ian hissed to Mickey and Mandy, holding Terry where he landed.

“That’s right!” Terry roared. “Fucking steal from me, you better run!”

Ian saw red, holding Terry, getting up from bed to follow Mickey and Mandy out of the camper. His fingers curled painfully, remembering all of the horrible things he did to Mandy, his daughter that he was supposed to love and protect. Fucking failed her on a massive scale. He hurt her. He traumatized her. Over and over again.

He knew it was dangerous to get angry like this while having someone in your hold. He knew it chipped a little something away from your good, from the Light. But he didn’t fucking care. He clenched his fist and his jaw, and focused on Terry, who was slumped on the floor of the camper; he smirked, watching the older man writhe and yell, eyes rolling back into his head. He gasped for breath. 

It sounded like he was trying to breathe with broken glass in his throat and Ian fucking hoped it felt like that too. Served him right for hurting Mandy. For threatening Mickey —the stress he put him through, the abuse, making Mickey pretend to be something he wasn’t just to appease him. Terry was a fucking monster. 

Ian felt a dull throb behind his eyes, but he ignored it, keeping his focus on Terry. The camper shook around him, heat flushing him from head to toe. He cracked a smile, getting swept up in the moment and power of it all, when the older man’s eyes rolled back and he cried out like a little bitch.

“Ian!” Mickey grabbed onto his arm, pulling him through the camper door. “Ian, you’re fucking bleeding —you’re gonna kill yourself, stop!”

The hold broke, leaving Ian with ringing ears under the loud thump of his own heartbeat; so _abruptly_ , he was weak and moving slow, unable to focus on much else but the open door of the camper. It was like time slowed down and dragged -his vision dragged as he looked around, stunned. He'd been right up to that edge of losing control. Fuck. 

Everything was muffled around him —the yelling, the sounds of the woods, his own breathing. He stumbled back with Mickey and Mandy by his side, lost out to sea without an anchor, mind adrift. What happened? It was kind of difficult to breathe, his throat coated, nose stuffy, face wet —that's right, he was bleeding. Ian didn’t even have time to raise a hand to his top lip to wipe the blood off before something was on top of him, tackling him to the cold, hard ground. 

It was like being hit by a truck, the wind getting knocked out of him, not having the time to protect his face before one of Terry’s fist slammed into his jaw. He couldn't breathe, couldn't catch his breath, couldn't even put up a fucking fight to defend himself. He couldn't get control of his own body, so he just ended up laying there and taking the beating.

Terry hit him three or four times (maybe more, it was hard to count), and Ian distantly felt the older man pushing Mickey and Mandy away, who were trying to stop him. There was so much muffled noise, and while Ian knew that this all happened within the span of maybe ten seconds, fifteen tops, it felt like it went on for hours.

With the last hit, everything went white, and everything _hurt_ , finally feeling the effects of being beaten. Hurting but still dazed, Ian couldn’t process what was happening, couldn't focus. On top of being knocked around by a seasoned Werewolf, Ian had used so much energy on Terry, had just let his body pour all his hate and anger towards the man that he was fucking _useless_.

Vaguely, he heard Mickey’s muffled yelling and growling at his father, “Get the fuck off him!” Felt the older man’s large body finally being pulled off of him —or pushed or tackled. He was there and then he wasn’t. 

Ian rolled over on his side, throat stinging as he started coughing and gasping for air, feeling himself being pulled somewhere. Dead leaves shifted under him on the cold ground and Ian blinked, trying to focus, hearing the distinct sounds of fists hitting bodies.

“Ian!” Mandy’s desperate, terrified voice brought him back into focus, snapping back the sound and awareness that he’d lost. She held onto his face, looking more scared than he’d ever seen her. “Stay here, okay? Stay right here.”

He nodded, coming back around, much less focused on the pain he was in and more worried about where Mickey was, what was happening. “Mick? Wh-where’s Mick?”

Ian wasn’t sure when it had happened, but Mandy wasn’t in front of him anymore. She was picking something off of the ground and stepping over to where Terry was beating Mickey just like he had been beating Ian. 

It was a sobering sight. The older man over Mickey like that, fist raised in the air, Mickey kind of limp, but still fighting to get away from his father. There was so much fucking blood smeared across both of their faces, and Ian had no idea who it was from, Mickey or Terry. 

No, no, no, no, no! Ian swore his heart was about to beat out of his chest, seeing Mickey like that. His body protested as he leaned forward, trying to get to Mickey. He had to help him, couldn't just sit there and do nothing. He wanted to scream at Terry, but his mouth wouldn't work.

“Hey!” Mandy yelled at Terry, catching his attention.

The shiny gun in her hand was pointed directly at her fathers head, effectively stopping the fight. Ian ignored his body's protests and the pain radiating through his body, and scrambled to his feet, making a (stumbling) beeline for his best friend.

“Let him go,” Mandy growled at her father. Her eyes flashed amber and Ian wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen a more steady hand than the one holding the gun.

The older man was breathing hard, sitting back to let Mickey up. His eyes matched Mandy’s, glowing amber with rage, “You gonna shoot me, girl?”

Mandy cocked the gun, the clicking sound ringing through the dead silence. Her eyes were glassy with tears and hard as steel, “Been waiting to for ten years, you son of a bitch.”

 

* * *

 

It was five days before Mandy finally spoke.

“Gotta start over,” She had said somewhere in Alabama, head resting on Mickey’s shoulder as Ian took his turn driving. “Just go somewhere and start over.”

So that’s what they did.

They didn’t go back to South Side. It didn’t feel like home anymore, and after what happened in the mountains, it kind of felt like they couldn't go back. They stayed in shitty hotels and ate shitty diner food, were cramped in that shitty pickup truck with all their shitty things and shitty camper trailing behind them.

 

* * *

 

Fast forward a year later, and they still don’t talk about that night. They don’t talk about how Mickey and Ian, broken and bloody, tried to convince Mandy that she didn't want to carry that with her —the weight of taking a life. 

They don’t talk about how Mandy screamed at a silent Terry, shoving the gun in his face, pressing it hard against his temple. They don’t talk about how Mandy cried through her screaming, how everything else in the world seemed so insignificant, and how deep down Ian and Mickey knew she fucking laid claim on the right to put a bullet into this man’s head, before anybody else. 

They don’t talk about the fact that what they should have done was tie Terry up and called the one kind of person that no Werewolf ever wanted to come face to face with, because it always _always_ ended in death. Should have done that, it was the right move. But they didn’t.

They don’t talk about that stark crack of the gun going off. How Mandy violently shook as she dropped the gun and fell sideways into Ian’s arms, how Mickey was right there with them. How they stared down at Terry’s lifeless, bleeding body for an hour, holding each other, scared. 

And they don’t talk about the deep grave in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, where under layers of heavy rocks and dirt lay the thing they don’t talk about.

They don’t talk about the night that they all grew up.

 

* * *

 

Groaning, Ian pushed his forehead against the front door of his apartment while he slid the key into the lock. Friday nights were a bitch, waiting tables at a restaurant that he’d never dream of even stepping foot into before, let alone working in. But hey, with nice restaurants came expensive food, and with expensive food came big bills —which in turn (usually) meant big tips. So Ian could bitch all he wanted, but at the end of the day, he was (usually) a happy fucking camper.

The apartment was dark and quiet. He carefully closed and locked the door behind him, slipped out of his shoes, shrugged his jacket off as he made his way into the kitchen. The glowing green numbers on the microwave read half past twelve and that meant that Mickey was probably already asleep. He's been having long works days this week, so he's been crashing pretty early.

Ian grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning against the kitchen counter as he took long drinks from it, glad for that flush of cold water. He pressed the bottle to his forehead and sighed heavily, closing his eyes.

They ended up in Salt Lake City, of all places. Mickey’s been working for a construction company for almost a year now. Good pay, time off when he needs it because he’s become a sort of an asset because of his ability to keep going when other (normal) workers got tired —so, as much of an asset a laborer can be. Comes in handy for when Mickey needs to take a day off, after a turn.

Mandy’s got a front desk job at a salon. Not her favorite but it’s better than shitty diners. Also she gets to sit down most of the day and gets free haircuts. But she has a hard time connecting with the people she works with, and is constantly talking about finding a new job. She has that option now, to pick; it's a comfort they're all grateful for... the options, the freedom.

All in all, it’s been a slight struggle to get to where they are now. For a couple months they were holed up in a hotel room, while they took shitty jobs and found a place to live. It wasn’t as easy as it was in Stonefox. Which was weird, because in a city, you’d think it would be easier. But businesses didn’t hire just _anyone_ and apartment complexes didn't let just _anyone_ live there. They were three kids -runaways- from South Side with limited work experience and education. 

They took those couple months in the hotel to work whatever jobs they could find every day, no off days, and to make a plan and figure out how the hell they were going to live. It was exhausting and the three of them pushed each other, lived on top of each other, got frustrated and cursed at each other. But miraculously, they didn't give up, they didn't walk away. It honestly probably brought them closer together, more than anything.

One year later and now they’re living in a decent two-bedroom apartment, all three of them having jobs and Mandy is back in the dating scene after taking some much deserved time to herself. 

Mandy and Ian got their GED’s about six months back —they were still trying to get Mickey to get his, but unfortunately he didn’t see the point yet since he already had a job with good pay. He was being stubborn about it, and Lord knows Mickey Milkovich could play that card until he was blue in the fucking face.

“Hey,” Mandy’s soft voice drew Ian out of his thoughts. She had a big shirt on and probably nothing else, hair rumpled.

Ian grinned at her, watching her get a water bottle out of the fridge for herself, “Having a sleepover?”

Mandy knocked her elbow against his and stifled a laugh, “Hush.”

She went through a really hard time after that thing they don’t talk about. Days without talking or eating, weeks of locking herself in bathrooms to cry. Ian and Mickey did the best they could to comfort her, but honestly it mostly fell on Ian’s shoulders. Mickey just didn't know how to make his little sister feel better, no matter how much he wanted to. But he did try and that’s all that Mandy could’ve really asked for.

It’s been a year and she’s feeling more like herself than ever. Mandy’s good. Ian knows she still thinks about it, and the _reason_ she did what she did. But they don’t talk about it anymore. There’s nothing left to talk about. Mandy’s a survivor though, and even though her wounds will probably never completely heal, she’ll still keep going. She smiles a lot more, and _now_ when she smiles, her whole face lights up.

Ian and Mandy part ways, each going to their bedrooms where someone is waiting for them. Well, someone is waiting for Mandy —Ian gets the unmoving lump stretched out in the middle of the fucking bed, breathing heavy and probably drooling. Mickey’s cute like that.

He strips down to his boxers and climbs into his and Mickey’s bed, gently moving the Werewolf’s arm so he can snuggle under it and press close to him. Mickey is warm and is this combination of hard under soft and Ian loves it —loves him— so much.

Mickey grunts, barely waking up enough to move and properly wrap his arm around Ian, calloused fingers brushing lightly over the middle of his back, small circles, making Ian hum and melt into the mattress. Ian leans forward to push his lips against Mickey’s sleepy, soft mouth. 

“Hey baby,” Ian whispers, not expecting an answer, but Mickey grunts at him again. 

He brushes his nose with Mickey’s, curling his arm around him, fingers trailing across the skin of Mickey’s back. Ian closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

All things considered… he’s happier than he’s ever been, with his own little family now, a family that he keeps close, that he shares everything with. And he knows for sure now that this was where he was supposed to be all along. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"This is my family. I found it, all on my own. It's little, and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good."_
> 
> I really hope this ending didn't feel rushed and too "sunshiny", but it just felt right to end it this way, after all these babies have been through. I like it *shrugs*. (I almost didn't include that whole end chunk tbh lol)
> 
> This story has been such an emotional roller coaster for me and I cried when I finished it?? Like?? Please someone send assistance??
> 
> I cannot begin to thank everyone for all the love that this has gotten. I've said it about 84 million times, but I was nervous to post because not everyone likes supernatural au's and omg I can't really explain how thankful and excited that people connected with this and enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading and taking this little journey with me. I'm a mess.


End file.
